


Recovery

by mainegirlwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Disfigured sherlock, Doctor Watson, Dr. Watson - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, John taking care of Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainegirlwrites/pseuds/mainegirlwrites
Summary: The great Sherlock Holmes is recovering from disfiguring injuries with the help of Dr. John Watson - but can a broken spirit be fixed?





	1. Chapter One

“Not one word. Not one bloody word,” John whispered into his cell phone. “The whole move here, I know it must have been painful at times, but damn the man. He just closed his eyes and turned his head and didn’t say anything.” John squeezed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Thank you, Molly. Yes, I will call if I need anything. I think we – he – just needs time.”

John ended the call but stared at the phone for several minutes, deciding what to do next. His best friend and comrade in arms, the great Sherlock Holmes, was back at home at 221B.

After the incident.

John shook his head, wondering why he was calling it that. It was more like a mistake, an ego-driven error on the behest of the detective, going up against a 125-kilo 2-meter tall adrenaline- and heroine- driven criminal who flung the lithe Sherlock across Molly’s lab tables at the hospital. The result? Four broken ribs, chemical burns on his right arm, hip, and…the right side of his face. The acid in the beaker that monster had ground into the side of Sherlock’s face had literally melted the man’s right ear, burned off his hair, and eaten away at his cheek, the side of his nose, and the skin surrounding his eye.

After a few days at the hospital, John had decided the best care would be the only kind he himself could give Sherlock, in the quiet privacy of their flat. Sherlock had detested the hospital, eating nothing, dry heaving on the meds, swinging his wounded appendage at the doctors and glaring, one-eyed through his bandages, frightening the nurses. Even then he barely spoke a word, lips hard pressed in a thin line, head turned away. Sherlock did fill John with relief when he granted John a quick nod at the suggestion of going home. They had to sneak out the back of the hospital into a waiting ambulance to avoid the vultures of the press, eager to be the first to snap a picture of the detective’s disfiguring injuries. The orderlies were not the gentlest, ratcheting Sherlock’s cot up the stairs into 221B brusquely. John looked on in dismay as Sherlock shut his eyes and his face drained of any remaining color at the pain. When they finally got him into his bedroom, John was the one insisting on clasping Sherlock under the arms and moving him gently onto his own bed. The former military man had always been a strong man and had lifted Sherlock in the past, but the feel of Sherlock’s fragile, skeletal frame shocked him. John vowed to heal and fatten the man up.

John shook his head, breaking his mournful gaze at his cell phone. It would be just him and Sherlock now, and for a while. The man’s injuries would take months to completely heal. The ring of the doorbell made him start, and he opened the door to a delivery man holding flowers.

“Delivery for Sherlock Holmes,” the man said from behind the bouquet of at least three dozen colorful roses.

“Oh, um, thank you – yes, right over here,” John stammered.

“Where do you want the rest?”

“The rest?”

“Yeah, got a truck full of ‘em! Popular guy, your boyfriend,” the man said, wiping his hands on his thighs.

_Really?!_

“Take the flowers to the elderly’s house around the corner. They will enjoy them much more than Sherlock,” John said, handing the man a few pounds. The delivery man shrugged and trudged back down the stairs.

“Jaw,” came a call from Sherlock. John beat a path to his bedroom. The stitches and bandages that covered them encircled the right side of Sherlock’s face and over the top of his head, restricting his speech, so John was very happy to hear him attempt talking at all. The detective raised to fingers to his dry lips and tapped them when John entered the room.

“Ah, thirsty?”

Sherlock gave a weak ‘thumbs up’ in response and John brought him a glass of water. John sat on the edge of the bed and directed the straw to Sherlock’s mouth. His eyes sought Sherlock’s, but they were downcast, intent on the glass in John’s hand.  John instead took the moment to quickly examine Sherlock’s bandages, and determined that tomorrow, they would need to be changed.

“I’m going to give you a few more days to rest, but then I need you up and around. And eating,” John lectured as put down the glass and checked Sherlock’s IV fluids. It was a mix of fluids and morphine, the pain medication being a scary but necessary need for the on-again, off-again drug user. Sherlock had skin grafts on his face, a painful but needed procedure done immediately after the incident to replace the skin on his face. Mycroft had brought in the best plastic surgeon to do the work, tearing the poor man away from his vacation in the Turks and Caicos Islands. John smiled to himself, picturing the helicopter landing on the beach, soldiers plucking the sunbathing doctor from this chair. No expense was spared for Sherlock’s care so far, and none would be in the future.

But money could not heal a damaged and depressed soul, and that was what John suspected Sherlock was succumbing to now. He only hoped that being back home would nurture both body and mind. John puttered around Sherlock’s room for a few minutes, setting out some medication and the bandages he would need for tomorrow. As always, his flatmate’s room was immaculate with everything in its place. John closed the window blinds and checked on Sherlock once more, who’s eyes were now closed, and left the room. It was still early afternoon and John sat at his desk and opened his laptop. He went through his emails, setting aside the ones from fans for now. He tapped his cheek with his fingers, not certain how to address the outpouring of concern and affection for Sherlock. He wanted to make sure his response was heartfelt but tactful and he was not in the proper mind frame for that at the moment. Instead, he read through the emails that may be leads on cases, imagining that when Sherlock felt better John could read them aloud to him. It would be, of course, an ego-boost for the detective to solve cases without even leaving his bed.

John paused for a moment, listening. He heard a huffing sound, a rustling of covers, a muffled wail from Sherlock’s room. He tiptoed to the closed door. It was only when he heard the crash of something falling to the floor that he intruded on Sherlock’s privacy.

John opened the door to see the bedside lamp and his careful array of medications and bandages on the floor. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, tearing at the bandages on his face, his one visible eye wide and frantic.

“Sherlock, nonono, it’s all right now,” John pleaded as he tried to capture Sherlock’s flailing hands. The detective was gasping for air, but John realized it was not due to a medical issue. Sherlock seemed to be in the midst of a panic attack. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re all right,” John soothed. Sherlock twisted away, blankets winding, the IV toppling and yanking at the needle in the patient’s arm. Sherlock yelped in pain, and John took the opportunity to pin the man down under him, each hand holding Sherlock’s wrists beside his head, and straddling him across his waist. Sherlock bared his teeth, shaking his head from side to side.

“It’s all good now, Sherlock. Its John. You’re home now, it’s all good,” John kept up a string of quiet words, not really sure what he was saying, just anything to reign Sherlock back in. Finally his patient quieted, one wide eye looking at John, a string of silent tears streaking down the side of his face.

 _Be the doctor_ , John told himself, even as he felt as if his heart were tearing in two. _He needs his doctor right now to take care of him._

“All right, all right,” John continued and slowly dismounted. When he went to release Sherlock’s wrists, the detective’s sweaty, shaking hands wrapped around and held on to John’s, his eye searching for reassurance. John felt a flood of emotions fill his chest: he adored this man, his best friend, who had taken him in and fixed him. Now John was more determined than ever to make Sherlock whole again. John gave a small reassuring smile and Sherlock released the doctor’s hands.

“You’ve got to let me help you. I’m putting your phone – here – right here – next to your bed. You call or text me anytime, for anything.” John righted the blankets and propped up pillows behind him, tucking the long, lean figure back into bed. He retrieved the lamp from the floor and turned to find Sherlock already punching at the phone. John’s phone buzzed.

_Claustrophobic_

“You aren’t, though. Just feels that way?” John asked.

_Yes_

“I was planning on replacing your bandages tomorrow, but looks like they’ve been a bit, eh, displaced. Why don’t we take them off and I’ll see if I can’t have less of them on you. Sound good?”

_Yes_

“You can just nod, you know,” John grinned, but Sherlock’s head was already bent over his phone.

_I don’t like to nod_

“All right, all right. Here we go.” After standing the IV stand up again and confirming the needles were still in place in Sherlock's arm, John sat on the edge of the bed and let his now gloved fingers skate over the bandages, determining the best place to start removing them. Now Sherlock’s eye was intent on John, absorbing and studying. John bit his lower lip in concentration as he cut away the tape and absorbent padding, layer after layer, until Sherlock audibly sighed with relief as the last of it was removed.

“I have to just clean it up a bit, and reapply,” John said quietly as he turned Sherlock’s head towards the light. Yes, the skin graft on his cheek, down to his chin, and under his eye were looking good and pink, the tiny stitches by the talented plastic surgeon barely visible. His right eye was fine, just a bit swollen shut. The side of Sherlock’s nose had only been hastily done, with plans for reconstruction later. At the sight of Sherlock’s ear – or lack thereof – it took all of John to control the emotions on his face. Only remnants of some cartilage were left – apparently, when Sherlock was found on his side on the floor, his ear was swimming in a puddle of the acid. The entire ear would have to be reconstructed. So intent was John that Sherlock had to nudge him to look at his phone.

_Looks bad_

“No – your cheek and nose look very good. The skin grafts are taking quite nicely.”

_Ear_

“I’m not going to lie to you, it’s going to need future surgery. Once your hair grows back over it, you won’t see it. The plastic surgeon that Mycroft got for you is quite outstanding.”

Sherlock raised a hand to touch the side of his head, his eyes confused. John put down his phone and gently guided Sherlock’s fingers so they would not touch any of the wounds.

“Yes, between the acid and the surgery, most of the hair on this side of your head is missing. But all the follicles are in place, it will all grow back.”

Sherlock bent his head over his phone, typing furiously, a deep furrow appearing on his brow. John stood by the bed, waiting patiently, but the detective shook his head and erased it all. He turned and stared at the wall.

“Okay, right. Let me just clean this up a bit and get you all set. I have to clean it, remove some of the scabbing with these tweezers, so it’s going to take some time.  Are you comfortable? I can’t have you moving around.”

Sherlock answered with a grunt, a response John assumed was as close to a ‘yes’ as he was going to get. John moved the lamp closer and carefully set about his task. He leaned over Sherlock’s head as it rested against the pillow, methodically checking and cleaning each wounded area, applying the proper ointments, and finally bandaging it up with the least amount of material that he could. He hummed. This is where he excelled – he may be slow on the draw on drawing conclusions that would solve a murder, but he was an outstanding doctor. But as intent as he was, he noticed Sherlock didn’t have his usual...Sherlock smell. That smell of old books and chemicals, of that certain spice that John had never been able to pinpoint was a cologne or shampoo. It was missing, cleansed away by the sanitation of the hospital. _You’ll get it back now that you’re at home,_ John reasoned _. This place is part of you, like that smell is to me. Familiar. Comforting. I’ll take care of you._

“There,” he said, surprised at the thoughts running through his head. “That should feel a lot better.”

Head bent over the phone: _Yes_

“All right, let me look at your other spots. Arm first,” John gently put his hands under Sherlock’s right elbow and raised it, determining that the small area, less then 4 centimeters long and 2 centimeters wide, was properly bandaged and could wait. John raised Sherlock’s top carefully to insure the bandages wrapped around his ribs were still in place.

 

“Need you to roll over a bit, let me look at the hip,” John said, raising the blanket, but Sherlock vehemently pushed them back down. “Sherlock, really? If I don’t take care of you, the hospital is going to pull you right back. I know I’m not a pretty nurse, but I am a doctor. Come on, let me have a look.”

With a sigh, Sherlock relinquished his hold on the blanket and rolled over on his left side as John pulled it aside to look at Sherlock’s hip. Here was another area where Sherlock’s body had been resting in a puddle of acid, leaving a large and deep wound in the area of the hip bone and the lean thigh directly below. John pulled the rough hospital pants over Sherlock’s hip – he wore no underwear underneath. The detective started when John’s fingers rested on his skin to pull back the bandages. John glanced up, but Sherlock’s face turned away, hidden in the shadows. The look of this area was worrisome, red and irritated with a lot of drainage. John redressed it, focusing right on the area, telling himself not to look at the rest of the detective’s exposed body. Below the curve of his hip John could just see the cloud of Sherlock’s pubic hair, and quivering abdominal muscles above that, and the smooth buttocks of the detective were facing towards John.

When John went to pull the hospital pants back up, Sherlock reached over and put a hand on Johns.

“Want out of these pants? I’ll get your pajamas.” With some maneuvering under the covers, Sherlock worked off the hospital pants and into his own dark blue, silken pants, gritting his teeth against the grinding of his broken ribs. Without a word, John helped his pull off the equally uncomfortable hospital top and slid Sherlock into the matching silken top. Sherlock’s thin chest rose and fell with deep, tired breathes as John buttoned it up. The clothes had a faint scent of that something familiar that was previously missing, and John’s heart quickened when he caught a waif of it.

Finally, the patient collapsed against his pillows, exhausted, his one exposed eye sunken deep. John gathered the bandages, glancing at his phone when it buzzed. 

_Thank you, John_

John looked up, surprised. “You are most welcome, Sherlock. And that’s Dr. Watson to you.” Sherlock turned his head away, but John swore he saw the faintest upturned corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Will you be needing anything else, then?”

_Tea_

“Of course, I’ll go make some.” John, his hands now full, walked towards the door. His phone in his back pocket buzzed twice in quick succession.

“I’ll look at it in a moment,” John called to Sherlock over his shoulder. _Maybe the texting wasn’t such a bright idea,_ he sighed. John bagged the medical waste and deposited it into the labeled-as-such receptacle in the kitchen – must have been brought here by minions of Mycroft, what else will I be finding? – he checked his phone.

_Not your tea its awful get Mrs. Hudsons but I don’t want to see her_

_Please_

“A please and a thank you in one day,” he mused. _All right, I’ll go down and tell her BRB_

He wasn’t gone but three minutes at the most when – _buzz_.

_Back soon?_

_Yes, just chatting with Mrs. Hudson and waiting for the tea_

_She can bring it up she doesn’t have a broken leg_

John dropped his head to his chest and chuckled, not even sure how to reply. But he was pleased that there was a bit of Sherlock spirit coming through, and that hadn’t even been home but a few hours. He thanked Mrs. Hudson and promised frequent updates, then tray in his hands, took to the stairs up to 221B.

At the door, he paused.  

_I am his doctor, and I am his friend._

If John (friend) thought for a moment about what John (doctor) had seen and dealt with in that room….a panic attack? A disfiguring injury? John clamped his eyes shut, determined to erase the sight of the half-bald, paler-than usual, wasted man bleakly laying in the bed in the flat. That was not the Sherlock that he knew, but it was the Sherlock right now. John tried to take a deep breath, to ease the clamp that seems to have seized around his chest. He gave himself a quick nod, and marched through the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As we enter the first day of home care, John discovers Sherlock has a dangerous fever.

**TO: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth <swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com>**

**FROM: Dr. John Watson <jwastson@consultingdetective.com>**

**SUBJECT: SH**

**Good morning, Dr. W, as per your request, here are my morning notes regarding the patient. Yesterday’s homecoming went smoothly and patient settled in comfortably. I replaced all bandages save the elbow, with special regard to hip injury: was red/irritated/weeping.**

**This morning I will discontinue the use of IV drip as patient is willing to take in meds orally. Antibiotics 500 mg 2x daily, pain meds as needed (no more than 150 mg 4x daily). Will force fluids and promote exercise as there is a general weakness/stiffness due to inactivity.**

**In regards to the general mental health of the patient, that may be an ongoing concern.**

—

John frowned, and erased the last line. He would wait and see how things in that area progressed. And should these emails ever get in the hands of the press, any mention of mental issues would be fodder for the hyenas of the daily rags. Instead, he continued:

—

**Should any issues arise I will certainly be in touch, and you of course, can reach me any time via text or email. Yours, John**

**__**

_There, much better. Perhaps a line about how when Sherlock can be by himself for a bit, I could take you out to dinner, Dr. Wadsworth?_ John thought better of it, and hit SEND before he changed his mind. He had been impressed with the doctor, an intelligent and kind woman of Mediterranean descent with large brown eyes and long black hair and olive skin. She was no nonsense, the only doctor to give Sherlock’s attitude right back to him, making the detective respect her just a bit. She was the one who John went to when he decided he wanted to bring Sherlock home, and she understood and assisted him with arranging it.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Hudson whispered gently as she opened the door. “Fresh tea for you.”

“Oh, that is so kind, thank you,” John said, taking the tray from her. “Could I impose on you for some biscuits? I haven’t had a chance to go to the store yet.”

“John, have you even been in your kitchen?” Mrs. Hudson asked, clucking in disapproval. “I bet it was Mycroft’s doing – go ahead, take a look!”

Confused, John put the tray down and walked into the kitchen, noticing for the first time how incredibly clean it was. When he opened a cabinet, it was bursting with food and supplies. The refrigerator was new – gone was the appliance that once housed Sherlock’s science experiments, and this one had fresh fruit and vegetables, juice, cream, jams, meats and cheeses.

“Mrs. Hudson, we will never be able to eat all this food – is there anything you need?”

“Oh, no, goodness, you fatten Sherlock up, that poor boy. And you, too, John. Gone and lost some weight yourself, have you?”

John ran his hands down over his stomach self-consciously, noticing that yes, he had dropped some weight since the incident. There was little time or thought for nourishment when your best friend was an injured and high-maintenance as Sherlock. John’s stomach rumbled.

“You go on, now, get something to eat. I’ll be out for a bit this morning, but if you need me…,” she waved good-bye and closed the door. John made himself a plate of toast, jam and a couple of hard boiled eggs. He sat in the kitchen, a full plate in front of him. It was a bit disconcerting to have Sherlock’s microscope and other equipment tucked into a box in the corner, peeking out from the cardboard lid in silent protest, but beside that, he was content. He was home, and Sherlock was home. For the first time in a very long time, he felt in control. He would be the one supervising Sherlock’s care, making the decisions that would make the man whole again. In a way, it made him proud that he did not need anyone else. He was completely and totally capable at this moment in time.

_Sherlock._

Before taking a single bite, he went to check on his patient. Sherlock was on his back, arms stretched wide, mouth slack. In the quiet darkness of the room, John could sense a pained melancholy from the man and knew Sherlock’s brow was furrowed even in sleep. He walked over to the side of the bed and gazed down on Sherlock’s face, noting the sharp features of his friend were more prominent, more drawn, his cheekbones more like akimbo elbows. Sherlock breath hitched and he licked his lips, and without thinking, instinctively, John gently brushed a few stray, damp curls off his forehead. Sherlock slowly opened his one visible eye, its sliver-green color glowing in the shadows, looking up at John, whose heart was beating so loudly in his chest he was certain it could be heard.

_Ah, it takes you to be as weak as a kitten for me to finally touch you like this._

John kept his hand on Sherlock’s forehead, rubbing his thumb against the rigid furrows, until the eye closed and the patient exhaled deeply. John moved his hand and rested the back of his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek. There was a thin sheen of sweat there, an unhealthy heat being exuded.

John’s heart beat fast again, but now for a different reason. One of concern.

_Fever._

He stood, paralyzed by fear.

_Fever=Infection._

He would not relinquish Sherlock back to the hospital. This man, in this bed, was his responsibility to care for. His alone.

Reluctantly he let his hand drop, then moved over to the IV to increase the flow of much needed hydration. John’s mind, now in doctor mode, created a mental checklist, determining what medication would be needed and how he would obtain it without the knowledge of Dr. Wadsworth.

Sherlock moaned and his long body shifted uncomfortably.

“Jaw,” he said hoarsely.

“I’m right here, Sherlock,” John said, his eyes darting, inventorying supplies.

“Haw.”

“Yes, you are hot because I believe you have a fever.”

Sherlock’s eye fluttered open and his arm sprung out of the covers, groping for his phone. John pushed it into his hand. He texted:

_I don’t want to go back to the hospital_

“Oh, you won’t,” John replied, taking a moment to catch Sherlock’s eye and nod reassuringly as he warmed the stethoscope between his palms. “I’ve got you. Here, let me listen.” He released the two top buttons of Sherlock’s pajama shirt, placing the instrument against the firm pectoral of the patient’s chest. John perhaps took too long to listen, letting his hand linger on the pale flesh, his eyes demurely studying exposed almond-brown nipples. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen his flatmate shirtless, most of them occurred when Sherlock had a thought in the shower and he would fly out of the bathroom, one hand gripping a loose towel around his waist, the other gesticulating. John had always wondered how the detective was able to maintain a near-perfect, chiseled physic by barely eating and a lack of fitness program.

However, now he frowned when he heard a slight rattle of congestion.

“Now, I need you to roll on your side, I’ve got to check that hip.” John lifted the covers, feeling the heat that was released from beneath them. Sherlock floundered to move, so John placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and the back of his thigh to assist him. When he pulled the pajama bottoms down over the hip, he found that sure enough, the bandages on the detective’s hip were soaked with drainage.

“I’ve got to remove this, yeah,” John said more to himself. He assembled the needed bandages and tape put gloves on, noting that Sherlock lay, unmoving, a forlorn figure that seemed to melt into the mattress. A ghost of a man. “You’re going to be fine, Sherlock,” John said, pulling off the dressing. “Just a little bump in the road, but nothing old Dr. Watson hasn’t seen before.” He kept up his one-sided conversation, filling Sherlock in on the bounty of food in the kitchen, but avoiding mention of the new refrigerator (John shuddered just a bit to think what was in the old one). The wound was infected, staring accusingly up at John like an angry red eye. He cleaned and redressed it and helped Sherlock roll onto his back again. There were high red spots on Sherlock’s pale cheeks and his eyes glittered with fever. The patient pushed John away impatiently when he tried to adjust the pillows and blankets.

“No maw,” he pleaded. “Me alone.”

“I’m afraid you are going to be stuck with me,” John replied, his hands on his hips. “I’m your John, and you’re my Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head vehemently.

“Paapa,” Sherlock said, his dry throat clicking.

“What?”

Sherlock grabbed his phone and texted,

_BRING ME THE PAPER_

“Right, right, well, you don’t have to yell. Here, take these meds. This one is antibiotics, this one for pain. I was going to take you off the IV, but with this fever I think it’s going to be the best way to get fluids into you 24/7.”

Sherlock accepted the pills into the palm of his hand and unceremoniously flicked the pain med across the room with a look of defiance at his doctor. John put his hands up in surrender and retrieved the paper.

Though he loathe to do it, John called Mycroft as he placed his uneaten platter of food back into the fridge. Not an hour later, a heart monitor, oxygen unit, automatic blood pressure cuff and additional medications and fluids were delivered to 221B courtesy of Sherlock’s brother.

“What’s this for? I didn’t ask for this,” John told the henchmen as they hauled a folding cot up the stairs to the flat.

“Boss said to put it in Sherlock’s room,” one of them replied. “Guess he thought it might be too uncomfortable for you’s two sleepin’ together.”

John felt an angry rush of blood flood his face, but counted ten to one to calm down and sputtered a thank you as they left. Sherlock looked up for a moment as John pulled the equipment into the bedroom, the newspaper a crumpled mess on the floor. His head was sunk deep in his pillow, his thin form barely making a bump in the blanket. It seemed to John that the detective was getting smaller every time John saw him. 

“Now most of this we won’t need, but just in case,” he said. He hesitated on the cot, then finally pushed it against the wall of the bedroom. “Yeah, just in case. Right, you want the tele in here?”

His patient turned his head away and flicked the long fingers of one hand in dismissal.

“There’s folks that would like to see you – Molly, Lestrade?”

No response, but Sherlock began to punch at his phone.

“Right, then -,”  

_Unable to read the paper with one eye cant focus_

“I see.” Without a second thought, John pulled the upholstered chair up close next to Sherlock’s bed and opened the paper.   _Its not like he asked for help directly,_ John thought. _He would never just say, can you read the paper to me?_ As much as John found being the caregiver gratifying and empowering, John realized that Sherlock was not comfortable in the role as the patient. He would have to be careful of the detective’s ego and not belittle the man in any way. Sherlock was helpless and exposed, not an existence that he was used to.

“Well, I’ll read you the interesting bits, that way we both hear it at once,” John said, flipping through the pages. “Maybe we’ll even get a case. There’s nothing wrong with your brain, you know.”

“Hmph.”

“Ah, here’s a good one…,” John began.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A persistent fever haunts the patient.

**TO: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth <swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com>**

**FROM: Dr. John Watson <jwastson@consultingdetective.com>**

**SUBJECT: SH**

**Good morning, Dr. W, as per your request, here are my morning notes regarding the patient. Here we are, Day 3!  All injuries look well and healing, still keeping an eye on hip which continues to be irritated/weeping, but no sign of infection. No longer needs IV for hydration; patient is self-limiting use of painkillers; antibiotics still 500 mg 2x daily. Should be up and walking today. Appetite is still minimal but not of concern.**

**Thank you very much for your kind email yesterday, yes, it was nice to meet you as well, even though the circumstances were not the best! I am humbled by your gracious invitation to dinner, however at this time Sherlock has become quite dependent on me and I don’t feel I would be able to leave him alone just yet. Soon, I’m sure.**

**Yours, John**

___

John sat back in his chair, reread the email a few times, and finally hit send. He stood up grabbed a few biscuits from the kitchen, the pile of towels and a bucket of warm water and went into Sherlock’s bedroom.

“How are we feeling this morning?” He asked quietly, placing the plate down beside the bed.  John gently placed the back of his fingers on Sherlock’s cheek, and through the stiff stubble of a several days of unshaven skin, felt the stubborn presence of the fever. Sherlock’s hand rose weakly from the blankets to shoo John away.

“Up now, time for a bit of a walk,” John said, pulling back the edge of the blankets. Sherlock’s eyebrow raised in surprise.

“Look, you may be sick and injured, but we’ve got to keep you moving. Activity is good for this sort of thing – increases appetite and blood flow – okay, yes, I see you are ready to go!”

Reluctantly, Sherlock swung his legs down onto the floor and accepted John’s hand to stand up. “Right this way, here we go,” John said, turning his back to Sherlock, who put a hand on each of John’s shoulders. Like an engine guiding an unruly train, the two of them walked down the hallway, round the living room twice, and back down the hallway with a break at the loo. John stood outside the door, listening for any sounds of distress. Sherlock was very weak, and standing for any amount of time took an inordinate amount of energy. He heard Sherlock pee (good strong flow, positive sign of hydration) and brush his teeth.  

Back in the bedroom, Sherlock sat sullenly in the upholstered chair beside the bed while John stripped it and put on clean sheets.

“There, much better,” John said, holding back the covers as Sherlock shakily got back into bed, his long fingers grasping at the back of the chair and then the headboard for support. John pressed his lips together, determined not to help Sherlock.

_He’s got to feel he can do some things by himself_ , he thought.  _As much as I want to, I can’t coddle him._

Once the detective stretched out long on the bed, John did allow himself to adjust a pillow - just slightly. Sherlock’s one visible eye was a small fire that watched John, deep and dark in the shadows of his face. He was exhausted already, and his sallow cheeks were pocked with bright red splotches of fever. 

“I think you could use a bit of a wash up,” John continued, his voice low. “You still have a fever, low grade, but persistent. If you can eat a bit of something today, I can up your dose of antibiotics. You’re good and hydrated though, that’s good. Here, head bandages first. Come on, now, the ones around your eye can come off, you won’t be looking like the Phantom of the Opera any more. Yes, very good. Looking very, very good, Sherlock. See? Even a bit of hair coming back over your ear, just like I told you. No, keep your hands down, I don’t want you to go and touch it just yet. Good, I won’t bandage that back up just yet. Alright, arms up, let me take this top off, we will change you into a fresh one. Ribs still bandaged up, we’ll keep it like they are. Pretty bruises there, for sure. Now, elbow is looking good, that can come off and stay off. All right, over on your side, this hip is causing quite a bit of trouble.”

John pulled Sherlock’s bottoms down over his hip and buttocks and peeled of the bandages there. He was disappointed to see no change in the condition of the wound. He pulled a sponge out of the bucket of warm water and squeezed it until it was nearly dry. He placed one hand on Sherlock’s rib cage to steady him, and carefully washed around the wound, removing the dried seepage on Sherlock’s skin. Goosebumps darted across Sherlock’s leg and back, his body as tense as a board. John rinsed out the sponge and dried the area with a towel.

“Well, I think we better keep going with that,” he said more to himself than Sherlock. His hands trembled just a bit as he removed the patient’s bottoms. He ran the warm sponge down Sherlock’s long back and over his bottom, which clenched at John’s touch. John bit his lower lip, reminding himself that he was Sherlock’s doctor.

“On your back now, nice and easy,” John soothed, pulling a corner of the blanket over Sherlock’s genitals to retain a bit of the man’s dignity, and ran the sponge down the front of each long, muscled leg.

_This man is like a sculpture_ , he thought, keeping his eyes on Sherlock mid-thigh and lower. He dried each leg, rebandaged the hip wound, and pulled on fresh silken bottoms. The elastic band of the pant caught on the tape of the dressing and John had to fumble with it a bit, his hands dangerously close to that soft cloud of pubic hair and what lay within.

“Just a bit over the chest now, just to clean you up. There you go, that must feel good.” Indeed, Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, his body sinking into the mattress. John ran the sponge over the detective’s smooth, alabaster chest, along the borders of Sherlock’s pectorals, over his stomach, down the sides of his body. He wrapped his fingers around each of Sherlock’s forearms and raised each arm in turn, cleaning the underarm and then the length of each arm. John took the time to wipe down each hand, then each finger, marveling at the length and strength of each, how elegant they looked as they lay atop the palm of John’s own stocky hand. Finally he wiped the hollows above each clavical, up under the neck, and gently over his face where he could. John went back and dried each slowly, noting how still Sherlock lay, how relaxed his face seemed to be. Then a swift shiver ran down Sherlock’s body.

“You cold?  Here, I’ll finish this up and get you warm again,” John said, reaching for a new top for Sherlock.

“Good,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes closed.

_Good as in good, cover me back up, or good, as in that felt good?_ John didn’t need reassurance in his skills as a doctor, he knew his was providing the best possible care that Sherlock could ever receive. But it pleased him to know that maybe he could make Sherlock feel ‘good’. At least he could hope that was what Sherlock meant.

“Up now,” John said, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling Sherlock into a sitting position. The detective seemed to be in a semi-conscious state, his head flopping forward, chin on his chest. “Easy there,” John said, realizing that Sherlock would not sit up under his own power, but rather, the detective slumped against John, his head laying on the doctor’s shoulder, small puffs of sweet breath against John’s neck. For a moment John sat, motionless, unsure of what to do. Then his hand came up and covered the back of Sherlock’s neck, absorbing the feel of the skin, the tendons, the muscles there in that long, angular, infamous neck. John turned his head a bit to the side, so his cheek just barely lay against Sherlock’s. Skin against skin. It was John who then shivered.

“Easy there,” he whispered. With some difficulty, he pulled on a new top and eased him down onto a fresh, cool pillow. Sherlock was out…a deep, restful sleep, long limbs loose, face relaxed, chest collapsing then rising again in perfect rhythm. John cleaned up the used bandages, collected the bucket and towels, and left the room. In the kitchen he put everything away, the opened the new refrigerator and stared at its contents.

_I’m not hungry. I should eat, but I’m just not hungry._

He put on the kettle instead and went out to the living room, pressing his forehead against the window overlooking Baker Street, seeing but not seeing the pedestrians, the taxis….

_I’m his doctor, and his friend. That is all. Those two things are enough. God, I’m touching the man like –_ John clenched his eyes shut. _I can’t take advantage of him. Be professional, if he remembers anything like me touching his neck, it will just be damned awkward._ The kettle hissed and the doorbell rang at the same time, startling John out of his thoughts. The visitor was Molly, bringing a piece of equipment from the hospital that John had been expecting. He poured her a cup of tea and they sat, John in his chair, Molly sitting awkwardly at the edge of Sherlock’s.

“He’s doing well, then?” Molly inquired.

“Absolutely,” John nodded. “He really cannot speak much. The skin grafts are a bit tight and still healing, so it’s difficult to move his mouth.”

“And eat?”

“Yes, of course,” John answered, hoping his face did not reveal this blow. Sherlock cannot eat because to chew would hurt his face BLOODY HELL I AM THE WORST DOCTOR EVER.

“John, did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, er - ,”

“I was wondering when I might come and see him when he’s awake.” Molly blushed and looked down into her teacup.

“To be honest, Molly, he’s being a bit more of a recluse than usual. Let him get healed up a bit more and we’ll see, yeah?” This was part truth, but the fact of the matter having someone intrude on their quiet little life, where John was in charge, was disconcerting.

Molly hung her head, disappointed. “He knows I don’t care about that, doesn’t he?”

John placed a hand on her knee. “Of course he does. You know, it’s just Sherlock.”

They said their goodbyes, John promising to keep Molly up to date, then he opened the package. Inside was a small device, shaped to fit into his hand, with a circular metal plate at its top about the size of a bottle cap. John pressed a button to turn it on and touch the metal plate, which vibrated just in the slightest. It would be used to massage Sherlock’s face to promote healing and circulation to his new skin. But John was not cheered by the delivery. Sherlock was not eating because _– good GOD_ – it hurt to eat. John had just assumed he was not eating because it was Sherlock and the man never ate. It had taken hours for the detective to – in a very roundabout way – ask John to read the paper. How in the hell was Sherlock going to ask for help eating – “John, could you make me a smoothie, please?”

John tapped his forehead with the device, a bit too hard, but it was punishment for his oversight. After a few minutes, he put device back into the box and went to the refrigerator, contemplating its contents. Nothing in there soft enough.

The cupboard – aha, a scone mix. John gathered the ingredients – thank you, Mycroft, for our well stocked kitchen – and watched them while they baked in the oven, taking them out while they were just a touch underbaked, warm and buttery, soft and crumbly.

_Buzz_

_Are you baking???_

With a proud flourish, John brought in a tray of tea and scones to Sherlock, newspaper tucked under his arm.

“Yes, I am. I didn’t think the oven even worked!” John said, setting the tray down.

_I didn’t even think the oven worked,_ Sherlock texted at that same moment. The flatmate’s shared a smile, Sherlock’s a bit lopsided. He must have felt it, because the detective raised a hand to cover his mouth, his eyes filled with alarm. John pretended not to notice.

Sherlock had fallen asleep during his sponge bath before John could reapply the bandages to his head, so this was really the first time in a while John was able to look at his entire face. The skin on the right side of the detectives face was still pink and a bit unnatural looking, with thin lines of the edges of the grafts bisecting Sherlock’s cheek. There was a thin stubble on the side of his previously bald head, and the wounded maw of an ear displayed prevalently. The swelling around his eye had disappeared, and the right side of his nose was thick and scabbed.

“Here, let’s get you sitting up a bit more,” John said, adjusting the pillows behind Sherlock. He handed the detective a scone on a plate and then sat down and opened the paper.

Sherlock was a handsome man, there was no doubt. Though there were whispers of doubt concerning his sexuality, it didn’t stop mobs of besotted women from emailing him, sending him their underwear, and showing up at any of his appearances. John knew that the man secretly reveled in the attention – hell, who wouldn’t? – but certainly never acted on any of the offers thrown his way. _Married to my work,_ Sherlock had once told John. It was not just his physical presence that was impressive to behold. Sherlock carried himself impressively (some would say arrogantly) with his chin up, eyes devouring, curly locks just the right amount of messy. Any other person with his long neck and ambling limbs would resemble a marionette, but Sherlock was ballet, he was waltz, he was elegance.

Even now, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye while pretending to read the paper, John knew he would be fine. He would recover, he would heal. He would show them all.

John set a plate with a scone on his own lap and began to read some articles out loud, pausing every few minutes to take a bite. He was interrupted by Sherlock tapping his fingernails on his own plate, indicating the need for another scone.

_Thank God_ , John thought. _He’s eating._

John obliged and went back to his reading, glancing up every once in a while, noting that Sherlock would pinch off a piece of crumbly scone and push it into the left side of his mouth. This produced a fair bit of mess, but John ignored it, unwilling to make Sherlock self-conscious.

_Buzz_

_I want you to cut my hair_

John looked up from the phone, perturbed. Sherlock was looking at him, eyes pleading, crumbs dotting his lips.

“I don’t know how to cut hair,” John said.

_Razor, all off_

“You want me to shave your head? Sherlock, why?”

The detective tossed his phone aside on the bed and shrugged. He busied himself by sweeping the crumbs from his lap onto his plate.

“Let’s just think about it, yeah? Right now let me just cover up that ear, and a bit across your nose. That’s going to a lot less than what it was. Much better.” While John bandaged those two areas, he had to lean in close to Sherlock, gently laying sterile padding across the affected areas, his fingers tapping white tape into place. The whole time his patient’s eyes were locked on him, studying John. Observing. It wasn’t uncomfortable for the doctor, but he was unable to recall the last time the two of them had been this close with Sherlock coherent. John finished bandaging the ear, and without thought, touched the back of his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek. For a moment Sherlock’s eyes dropped and it seemed that Sherlock turned his head into John’s touch, but then it was gone, and John’s chest compressed like a metal band was squeezing around it.

“Another scone – no? That’s all fine. Here’s water and your antibiotics,” he managed. “I’ll clean up and be right back.”

_Read more_

“Sure, of course.”

The remainder of the afternoon was pleasant, John reading until he was about hoarse, a pleasant rainfall tapping against the window, and Sherlock massaging his face with the new device from the hospital. It must have been between articles – and with the soft murmur of the rain and the drone of the face massager – that John dozed off. He was awoken from his slumber with a slap of a pillow to the face.

“Hawt,” Sherlock croaked.

“Right, sorry. I’ll get you more water,” the doctor said, staggering to his feet, still in a dream-like state. When he turned to Sherlock, he heart dropped. The man was literally drenched with sweat, his face so pale it was almost opaque, save for two prominent red splotches on each cheek. John lay a hand on the burning inferno of Sherlock’s forehead, his leg catching and pulling on the blanket as he did so. Sherlock clenched his eyes closed in pain. The blanket had tugged against the detective’s hip. John swore and pulled the blankets back, dismayed to see that under the bandages the wound had abscessed.

“Blood hell. Damn thing has to be cut open and drained, Sherlock. I’ll call - ,”

“NO!” Sherlock barked, grabbing John’s arm. “You, here.”

John paused. He had everything he needed right here – he could do it. He nodded grimly, chewing his lower lip. It would take some doing without assistance, but he could do it.

And indeed he did. John numbed the area with a local anesthetic, drained, flushed, and rebandaged the area. Both men were sweating and shaking at the end, but John carried on, providing Sherlock with a cooling sponge bath, fresh sheets again, and a broth dinner with a side of more scones. It was Sherlock that directed John, with his fevered, sunken eyes, to pull the cot over and sleep there that night.

And John gladly did.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's fever finally breaks, and John plays barber.

**TO: Dr. John Watson <jwastson@consultingdetective.com>**

**FROM: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth <swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com>**

**SUBJECT: SH**

**Good day, John! I did not receive your notes this morning, and hope all is well. Please let me know as soon as possible that our patient’s recovery is going as anticipated. I had planned on a house call as well as some point today, are there any additional medical supplies I may bring to you?**

**I really hope my dinner invite to you was not too forward, and I understand your need to stay near your flat during the recovery process.**

**Hope to hear from you soon,**

**Yours, Dr. W.**

It was late morning when John read the email, his eyes burning from lack of sleep. It had been a long night, Sherlock muttering in his fevered state, legs jerking, burning eyes boring into John without seeing. It was 4 am when the fever finally broke and John was able to collapse into the cot, and when he woke a mere hour later, he had been startled to find-

Sherlock’s hand upon his arm.

John had been sleeping on his back and when he awoke, raised his head cautiously to investigate the weight on his forearm. His eyes traveled down his arm, to Sherlock’s hand, to Sherlock’s arm that had bridged the gap between the two beds, to Sherlock’s resting, unfevered face.

John’s head fell back on the pillow, then raised again to look at the hand on his arm. Four long, elegant fingers draped over the doctor’s bare, muscular forearm, the thumb resting alongside. John studied them until his neck screamed for mercy. Perfect crescent pale pink nail beds set in fingers – fingers, these were not _fingers_ , these were the appendages that formed thought pyramids in front of pouting lips, these were the tools that held a gun or a knife, the dexterous formations that lifted a teacup, focused a microscope, typed a text, fisted in anger, touched a lover –

John’s head fell back on the pillow and he bit his lower lip to suppress a moan. He felt blood rush to his cock, and not because it was a normal morning occurrence, but because he was attempting to lock in the feel of the detective’s fingers on his arm and the light, cool feel of the five lines of Sherlock’s skin on his skin was a complete and total aphrodisiac. John lay there some, eyes clenched tight, memorizing that place, that time, until he slid his arm out from under that hand and Sherlock reclaimed it without waking, in fact, the detective took that hand and slid it under his own cheek, lush lips smacking in sleep. John turned on his side away from the detective and clasped his cock in his hand, squeezing and pulling until he came, biting down on his blanket to silent his moans, hoping the creak of the cot was not as loud as he imagined it.

Trembling, he had curled up into a ball and fell back to sleep until his phone buzzed with a text from Dr. Whitcomb hours later. He managed to rouse himself and stumble to the computer where he now sat, reading and then responding to her email.

**TO: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth <swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com>**

**FROM: Dr. John Watson <jwastson@consultingdetective.com>**

**SUBJECT: SH**

**Good late morning to you, Samantha! My apologies for my late response, the morning has flown by. Patient has been up and about and we found ourselves in a vigorous conversation concerning several cases, a most distracting activity! Though our patient’s body has been at rest by no means his mind has been.**

**At this point, pain meds are only on a needed basis – perhaps one a day, usually morning – and continuing with antibiotics for another 4 days at most. Appetite is increasing as is activity level and alertness. Not much more to report, which is good news of course.**

**Ultrasonic massager has been delivered and patient is using it on a regular basis, approximately 3x daily for 20 minutes in the affected areas. There are no medical supplies required at this juncture, thank you for that offer. Please give me a call today regarding when time you would like to be over.**

**Best, John**

John hit send and leaned back in his desk chair, sipping his coffee.

_Buzz._

_I’m awake._

“Yes, you are!” John said to himself, rising from his chair and entering the bedroom. “And feeling better?”

Sherlock raised grateful eyes to his flatmate. John smiled in response and nodded; no words needed to be exchanged. It was not easy for Sherlock to say thanks, so the look in his eyes was more than John expected.

“Yes,” he said. “Hun-gry.”

“Wonderful. I’ll go -,” John began, but Sherlock pulled off his covers and swung his feet to the floor. He was shirtless and the cool air of the flat made his smooth chest goose-pimple. John pulled a fresh top out of the drawer – noting it was the last one, he had to call the laundry service today – and Sherlock raised his arms in the air like a child while it was pulled over his head. The detective put a hand on John’s shoulder as he stood, steadying himself, John noting those long five fingers clenching for balance, those long five fingers….

“Jawn?”

“Yes, let’s go, I’m sure you are tired of this bedroom,” he said, shaking himself out of his reverie. He turned around and Sherlock put a hand on each of the doctor’s shoulders and they trundled to the living room. John insisted on twice around, a stop at the loo, then deposited Sherlock into his chair. As Sherlock picked at his breakfast of a poached egg, light toast and tea, John piled the laundry by the flat’s door. They were both startled – but, not surprised – by a delivery of fresh sheets and groceries by one of Mycroft’s minions. John could not help but notice that Sherlock roused himself to stagger to the bedroom while John was busy, only the rustle of the newspaper floating on his desertion breeze to let anyone know that Sherlock had left the living room.

John put anything cold in the fridge and then sauntered into the bedroom, only to find Sherlock laying on top of the covers, eyes closed, fingers pressed against his lips in his thought pyramid. John stepped inside the room, saw Sherlock thinking, then immediately turned to leave.

“Wat,” Sherlock said.

“Yes?”

“Red?”

“You want me to read the paper?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes straight ahead. John did not mention the fact that Sherlock had two eyes now to use to focus on the print, but instead retrieved the paper and pulled the chair up to his bedside and began to read. Twenty minutes in, John dropped the rag to his lap.

“Sherlock,” he began.

The detective continued to gaze right ahead. John continued anyway.

“Sherlock, are you concerned with your appearance? The way the scar looks, your ear, your nose? Because if you are, you need to get over it right now. Let’s talk about it. Because you are in the initial stages of healing, and you have a long way to go with reconstructive surgery. I don’t want you worrying about it, right? We have a long road ahead of you, and it’s going to be all right.”

The detective glanced over at John for a milli-second. “We?”

“Uh, yes, of course. I’m here with you. We have a long road ahead of us, I meant to say.” John’s heart thumped inside his chest so hard at this statement he was sure Sherlock could see his rib cage tremble.

Sherlock merely nodded once.

“All right. I just don’t...want you to be self-conscious, is all,” John paused for a moment, then seeing no reaction, plunged on. “You have several surgeries ahead. It’s going to be fine.”

Another quick nod, and John, sensing an end to the conversation, picked up the paper and began to read again.

“Har,” Sherlock said suddenly. At John’s quizzical look, Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance and texted:

_Hair_

“You still want me to cut your hair?”

_Yes_

John scratched his own head, his face scrunched in thought and studied Sherlock’s head. There was a certain lop-sidedness to it, he had to admit. Approximately ¼ of the detective’s head was near bald, with just a bit of fuzziness coming back in, and the other ¾ was his usual crown of soft curls, which was actually getting a bit long, even for Sherlock.

“How about a compromise…I just do a trim,” John finally relented. Sherlock gave a quick jerk of his head, then remembering he didn’t like to nod, texted:

_Yes_

_Just don’t make me look like crap_

When it was all said and done, John had to admit he had done a decent job. He had sat Sherlock in one of the kitchen chairs set by the fireplace, a towel around his shoulders. Using a wet comb to keep the curls under a bit of control, John took small sections between his fingers and trimmed them using a spare pair of sharp scissors from his med kit. He was clumsy at first, and forced himself to take long, even breaths as if doing surgery for he was fearful his hands would shake. This was an intimate task, coming close into his flatmate’s personal space, even standing between Sherlock’s thighs to reach the top of his head. The detective sat ramrod straight and still, aware of John’s focus. The dark curls had a silken feel on John’s fingers and he sectioned and combed the hair a few times extra to insure their evenness….and to enjoy their texture. The gentle caretaker smoothed Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead, a brief thought of what it would be like to grab it in a fit of passion racing through his head so quickly he had to blink rapidly to keep his concentration.

He was tentative at first, but Sherlock insisted on a more aggressive chop, watching John in the reflection of his phone.

“This is more than a trim,” John had muttered when 2- and 3-inch swathes of hair fell to the detective’s shoulders.

_I don’t look like crap_ , Sherlock surmised when John finally stepped back.

“Well, thank God for that.”

Sherlock no longer had a lopsided, uneven appearance, though with his gaunt features, he did look a bit like a prisoner of war.  John sighed, tucked the detective back in bed, and retrieved a dark gray knitted hat from his service days.

“Here, you’ll lose all sorts of heat if you don’t wear this,” John said, pulling it on Sherlock’s head. John put it down too low over Sherlock’s eyes, and they both adjusted it at the same time, hands touching. Sherlock’s fingers ran down the length of John’s hand, so slowly, John watching as if frozen in time and space.

“Gud,” Sherlock affirmed.

_There’s that bloody ‘good’ again,_ thought John _. The hat is good? My hands are good? Could_ **I** _be good?_

The doctor’s phone rang in his back pocket, cutting off his thoughts.

“Oh, hello Dr. Wadsworth. Please, call me John. Yes, of course you may come visit.”

Sherlock hissed and shook his head vehemently.

“Yes, I understand.”

John narrowly dodged a pillow to the face.

“Speech therapist? Yes, you may bring her as well.”

Sherlock grabbed an empty teacup and saucer and threatened to drop them to the floor.

“Ah, it may be a bit too soon for the speech therapist, actually. We can do that another day. Of course. Yes. See you in an hour.”

The detective fell back on his pillows with a look of disgust and John gingerly removed the cup and saucer from his hands.

“As much as you would like to, I can’t keep everyone away forever,” he consoled. Sherlock responded by flipping over on his side and pulling the covers up to his ear. “I’ll let you rest, then, and be back in when Dr. Wadsworth is here. And you better be nice to her,” John said, pulling the door closed behind him; but he did have the most satisfaction when he heard Sherlock’s head lift from the pillow to watch him leave.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A follow up trip to the hospital yields hope and speech therapy.

** CHAPTER FIVE **

**TO: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth <swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com>**

**FROM: Dr. John Watson <jwastson@consultingdetective.com>**

**SUBJECT: SH**

**Good morning, Samantha. Thank you again for your visit yesterday, I am pleased to know that you are happy with the patient’s recovery. As agreed, I will bring him back to St. Bart’s today for a cosmetic surgeon consultation. We are finishing up the final round of antibiotics, pain meds are as needed only, activity and appetite continuing to increase. Ultrasonic use has been increased to 20 minutes 5x daily as you requested. I’ll be in touch regarding the speech therapist.**

**Best, John**

Yes, the visit went very well, and Sherlock heeded John’s words and behaved. The detective was charming, in fact, with John’s gray cap offsetting the color of his eyes, dutifully listening (or appearing to listen, John knew the look when nothing was entering Sherlock’s hard drive) to the doctor, and even a sweet “tank yu” at the end. It had been a difficult appointment, John knew. Dr. Wadsworth had a firm demeanor, insisting on taking off the bandages over Sherlock’s nose and ear and taking pictures of their condition for the plastic surgeon; listening to his heart, taking his blood pressure, and poking and prodding.

“You were very brave,” John told him after the doctor left. An outsider, John thought for a moment, might have thought he was talking to a child. But Sherlock’s eyes lit up with the praise and he sighed contentedly as John tucked him into bed. Sherlock had fallen to sleep immediately after she had left, and slept through the night, a soft snore indicating to John a deep and needed rest.  

Now John raised his eyes from his laptop to look as Sherlock trudged into the living room and sat down in his seat across from his flat mate. He had taken the bandage off from across his nose, revealing the thickly scabbed and misshapen feature. Between that, the hat pulled down low across his eyes, and the bandage still over his ear, John thought he looked like a bit of an awkward teenager dressed up like a street thug.

_Not going_

“Well of course you are,” John returned, snapping his laptop shut. Sherlock glared at him.

“Your ear is not going to grow back on its own. And I’m sure you’ve seen your nose. It needs to be fixed.”

Sherlock turned his head away, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair. John chided himself for being callous.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. The cab will be here in about an hour. Tea?”

Sherlock went to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. John stared at the ceiling and tried to gather his feelings. His patient required a mix of discipline and compassion that was getting difficult to muster. John was tired, emotionally and physically. If he let himself, he would go upstairs to his room and bury his head in his pillow and cry and scream. But being the good soldier, he bit his bottom lip, gathered his energy, and knocked on Sherlock’s door.

“You all right?”

“Ya,” was the answer, along with a string of sounds.

“Sorry?”

_Getting dressed please leave me alone for ten bloody minutes I don’t need a nursemaid to pull on my pants_

“Right…and you’re bloody welcome,” John muttered as he went into the kitchen and washed the dishes. A half hour later, they slide into a cab as they had done a hundred times before and were dropped off at St. Bart’s Hospital. Sherlock had his deer hunter hat on, ear flaps down, and his Belstaff coat with collar up high. The detective was quickly escorted to the appropriate office while John visited Molly in the morgue.

“How is he?” she asked, a bit too brightly.

“Same old Sherlock,” John sighed. “But getting better, stronger, every day.”

Molly looked at him with sympathy, long ponytail resting on one shoulder. “You need some rest. Would you like me to come over for a day and help?”

“No, its all good. Thank you, though.”

“Keeping him all to yourself,” Molly said, her eyes boring into him.

“What -,”

“It’s all right, John. I’d do the same. To take care of someone you care about…its almost a gift. To be the person they depend on, that provides comfort…I understand,” she shrugged and busied herself with paperwork on the lab bench.

“I – I should be getting back,” John stuttered. “I’ll call you…if we need anything.”

Molly looked up at him with shining eyes. “You won’t,” she replied. John could only nod wordlessly as he pulled on his coat and strode to the office to pick up Sherlock, but he wasn’t there. When John was directed to the speech therapist’s office, he went there with an extra hustle to his step. The receptionist brought John right into the appointment, a comfortable room with maroon armchairs and an oriental rug. The therapist was a young, petite woman with a blonde ponytail and a short skirt. John could tell immediately she was fighting off tears.

“Ah, Dr. Watson? Bethany Pierson. Just getting acquainted with Mr. Holmes, here,” she rose to shake his hand, her lower lip trembling.

“Please, call me John,” he answered, fighting the urge to ask if Sherlock had been behaving himself. It was obvious he wasn’t. “Maybe we could talk someplace else?”

Sherlock scowled at them both, hat pulled low, a fresh bandage over the whole of his nose, his arms crossed tightly.

“Of course, right this way. Excuse us, Mr. Holmes,” Bethany escorted John to an adjacent office, and released an exasperated sigh. “My God, how are you that man’s friend, I’ll never know. God bless you and your patience! I’ve worked with 4-year-olds that are more cooperative. Oh, Dr. Watson, I’m so sorry!”

“Quite all right, really.”

The young woman sat down and ran a hand over her forehead. “From what I can see, he has pretty limited oral movement. Those muscles in his face have been damaged, and they must be stretched and moved. It will be painful at first, but like anything, it will improve with time, if he does the exercises.”

“Show me.”

The speech therapist looked up in confusion. “What?”

“Show me the exercises, and I will be sure that he does them.”

“But there’s much more we -,”

“Let’s start with the exercises, and go from there. Show me.”

She sighed in resignation. “I’ve been told there would be extenuating circumstances by certain higher powers. Yes, I will show you, but there needs to be more than that, and very soon. Mr. Holmes is a brilliant man, and I certainly would not like his speech to be hampered in any way.”

Sitting down across from her, John patted her arm, his eyes filled with understanding. “Show me.”

###

John loved cabs. Always did. They were his preferred method of transportation, and he had let his license lapse a long time ago. In his younger days he had associated them with the tart smell of chums after a rugby game, the sweet scent of a young lady after a date, and now that he was older, the hum of excitement when investigating a case with Sherlock. They weren’t always comfortable or fast, but John would trust the driver to get him to where he needed to be. Right now, the gentle sway of the vehicle was putting the doctor to sleep. Except his cell phone kept buzzing and the man next to him was poking at him to answer.

“Christ,” John lamented as he pulled out his phone and shot an annoyed look at Sherlock. “No rest for the weary.”

_They are growing me an ear_

The text had an attachment of a human ear in a petri dish.

“Christ!”

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock’s eyes were bright with hope.

“How?”

_Sterilized apple slice that provide cellulose as a scaffold with injected Sherlock cells is the simplified version_

“Well…that’s amazing. I had heard about this research years ago, I can’t believe it actually came to fruition,” John said, his head slowly shaking in amazement. “And what’s the word on your nose?”

_Skin grafts and cartilage will be ready next week_

“Amazing. I’m really glad, Sherlock. I knew things would come along for you.”

Sherlock put his hand on John’s knee and gave a firm squeeze, then quickly abashed, pulled it back as a plume of red flushed his cheeks. The moment was taken away from them as they pulled up to their Baker Street flat to the flash of cameras from the paparazzi. Sherlock had just enough time to duck his head as John shouted to the driver to keep going.

“Bloody leeches!” John seethed, his blood pressure rising. “Someone must have seen you at the hospital and put the word out. They probably got a ten pound note for it – bastards! Keep going, round the block, the long way!” John put his hand on Sherlock’s back reassuringly as the detective cowered against the seat, his forehead resting on John’s thigh. John called Lestrade and in twenty minutes, coppers arrived to push back the crowd so John and Sherlock could finally enter their residence. With his collar high and his deer stalker low, there was not much the photographers could get for a picture, but they shoved and jeered none the less. Sherlock was white and shaken, sagging against the wall after they had run up the stairs.  

“Here, let’s get that coat off. And the hat. It’s been a long day and you don’t have all your strength back yet.”

Sherlock had only a moment to sigh and nod before there was a knock and Lestrade pushed open the ajar door.

“Checking on you after all the commotion down there! Good to see you two, it is! Been recovering just fine I’ve heard, but we are missing you boys. Got a few tough nuts we can’t crack!” Greg pumped John’s hand and offered him four files. “These are some good ones, I know it won’t take you long.”

“Eh, now might not be good, Greg,” John responded, glancing at Sherlock who had quickly moved over to the window to gaze out onto Baker Street, his back to them.

“I really need Sherlock’s help with a case,” came the plea.

“’S’okay,” came the whispered reply from the detective. John brought him the files, and Sherlock slowly paged through them. It fell silent in the flat, the rustling of the pages the only sound. Greg’s wide smile slowly faded and he glanced from one man to the other.

“Eh, tell you what Greg, it’s late so how about we get back to you tomorrow,” John said.

“Late? Its not even 2 pm! I know that one’s a regular night owl – never known him to sleep! These files have been sitting around for a while, waiting for you to take a look.”

Sherlock cleared his throat expectantly and John patted Greg on the shoulder and turned him toward the door. “We’ll take a look at them tomorrow,” John repeated.

“Er, all right, just let me know. Let’s all go out for a pint real soon -,”

“That sounds fine. Thank you, Greg,” John said, and shut the door. “Phew! I’d forgotten what a persistent fellow he could be! Sherlock?” Sherlock’s face was in his hands, shoulders clenched high around his ears. The files had fallen to the floor, their contents scattered at his feet. John rushed to Sherlock’s side, who pivoted his body away from John in shame.

“Hey, it’s all right. Everything’s all right,” soothed the doctor.

“No,” came the muffled sob from inside Sherlock’s hands. “Can-t-alk.”

“I know it’s hard to talk. Listen, I chatted with the speech therapist. She showed me what to do. Some exercises to start with.”

“Dum.”

“No, they are not dumb. Here, look at me. Please, Sherlock, please.” John gently took one of Sherlock’s wrists in each of his hands and pulled them away from the detective’s face. Oh, how it pained John down to the deepest pit of his soul to see the red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes of his friend. The misery that they told, the helplessness.

Sherlock let his hands drop and John dared to place his palms on each cheek, carefully wiping away the detective’s tears with his thumbs.

“You are an amazing man, Sherlock Holmes. You have calculated what is unfathomable. Imprisoned the evil. Saved lives. Escaped death more times than I care to count. You are my Sherlock, and I am your John, and we will make it through this, together. I promise.”

“Pwomise,” Sherlock huffed, his eyes locked on John’s.

“Promise. There’s no getting rid of me. Lord knows you have tried,” John smiled and dropped his hands, pleased to see the corner of Sherlock’s lip twinge. “Here, let’s do this one exercise – just one!” The detective rolled his eyes, but John pulled him to the couch and they sat.

“Okay – like this – EEEEEEEE.” John stretched his lips wide across his face, jaw clenched and teeth bared. “Come on, now, Sherlock – EEEEEEEEE.”

“No.”

“Come on – EEEEEE,” John turned Sherlock’s head towards him by tucking a finger under Sherlock’s chin.

“eeeeee,”the detective finally relented.

“Come on, lips like this – EEEEEEE.”

“eeeeEEEEEEE.”

“Great! Now this – OOOOOOO,” John pursed his lips together as if whistling.

Sherlock held a single finger up.

“This IS one exercise – they go together like this – EEEEEEEE OOOOOOO. See?”  

“eeeee ooooooo.”

“Good, more pursing – like you’re kissing me – OOO – oh!”

The two men stopped and stared for a long moment at each other. John’s words hung in the air.

_Like you’re kissing me._

John could not breathe, for his heart was truly in his throat, blocking all oxygen, shunting blood to his face until it burned. He looked at Sherlock – really looked. Gray-green catlike eyes, a bit wide with surprise, circles of red high on each cheekbone, short hair a bit mussed from taking off his hat. John leaned in and lifted a hand to sooth the hair back into place, the caretaker always, but Sherlock reached out and caught his wrist, suspending John’s hand in mid-air for a moment. Slowly, so slowly, Sherlock brought John’s hand to his own hot cheek, and the detective closed his eyes and leaned into the feel of it.  

“Gud.”

 The outskirts of John’s vision became black, all feeling, thought and emotion focused on Sherlock’s hand around his wrist, Sherlock’s scarred cheek against the palm of his hand. John gulped loudly in an effort to displace his heart down to his chest where it belonged.

“Good,” John repeated. Sherlock opened his eyes at the sound of John’s voice, eyes filled with wonder, and desire…but something else, too.

_Fear._

“Am I interrupting?”

Sherlock and John startled and stood up quickly, turning to find Mycroft standing in the doorway of 221B.

“Then I guess I am,” he said dryly, swinging his ever-present umbrella.

“Not at all. Practicing – that is, speech therapy,” John stammered.

Mycroft ignored the doctor and walked over to his younger brother. Sherlock did not turn away and the two stood face to face. “I see my doctor did an excellent job,” Mycroft remarked, studying Sherlock’s cheek. “Maybe I should have taken the opportunity to give you a new identity. Nice haircut, too. Well done, John. Though you would think your years of practice as a doctor would have given you a steadier hand."

Sherlock looked disdainfully down his bandaged nose at his brother.

“And not talking much these days, either? What a treat.”

“Is there something you wanted,” John said flatly, arms crossed.

“Just heard about all the ruckus with the press. Next time don’t take a taxi – I’ll provide your transportation. It’s much more discreet. It was the driver that called in the paparazzi. And don’t worry, any pictures they may have snapped have…well, have been deleted.”

Sherlock, still holding his gaze, gave Mycroft a quick nod in thanks.

“And John, should there be anything you need…be sure and let me know,” Mycroft’s tone softened for just an instant, and giving a mock bow to the flatmates, he departed the apartment. John quickly locked the door behind him, and both men gave out the large breaths they had been holding.

“Tea?” John offered.

_With brandy lots of brandy_

John laughed, happy to break the uneasy feeling that lingered in the room.

“Absolutely. I’ll bring it in.”

A few minutes later, John entered Sherlock’s bedroom where the detective lay under the covers in fresh pajamas with a certain gray beanie hat pulled down low over his ears, looking like a child waiting to be tucked in. John smiled, but noted his patient’s eyes were ringed with dark circles.

“Big day,” John sympathized, pulling up his chair and unfolding the newspaper he had brought in. “Here’s tea – with brandy, lots of brandy - and I brought the paper. Now here’s a good story…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An ear in a petri dish? Its actually real: https://ideas.ted.com/a-promising-way-to-grow-body-parts-using-an-apple/


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets an invitation. 
> 
> Thank you for all your kudos and comments, I am so pleased this little story has become meaningful! And...I just have to share...I became the patient of unexpected nasal surgery last week. For real. Art imitating life imitating art, eh?

**TO: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth <swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com>**

**FROM: Dr. John Watson <jwastson@consultingdetective.com>**

**SUBJECT: SH**

**Samantha, so sorry I missed seeing you yesterday at the hospital, but I understand all the patient’s reports will be forwarded to you as requested. I understand the first stage of facial reconstructive surgery will be scheduled soon; we will discuss in more length as we get closer to that date.**

**Speech therapy is being conducted here at home and we are already making progress. I will be conversing with the specialist involved after sending this email to you.**

**As always, you know how to reach me. Thank you,**

**JW**

John hit send with a pleased nod and took a sip of his steaming tea. He turned in his chair and gazed out the window overlooking Baker Street, taking a moment to appreciate the morning sun warming the flat…and thinking about last night.

He had read the paper to Sherlock, an activity that had apparently become part of their new routine. The detective had fallen to sleep after the fifth story, but John staying the room and continued to read, his tone lowered to hushed tones. It was only when he began to yawn himself that he decided to go to bed.

But where?

His bedroom upstairs seemed so far away and lonely these days. Deciding that he should be readily available should his patient require his services, he rolled into the readily available cot to sleep.

He had always been a light sleeper and being over in Afghanistan had only instilled that in him deeper. Being a doctor in an active war area had trained him to sleep between waves of patients –a type of sleep that allowed him rest but with the ability to be roused and on point almost immediately. This had also served him well in working and living with a consulting detective, of course. So on this particular night, now that Sherlock was healthy and John was not exhausted, he resumed his normal pattern of being a light sleeper.

It was early in the morning when John had felt Sherlock’s hand upon his arm. Those same long fingers, hesitantly being placed upon his forearm. John had awoken almost instantly at the first feel, but he willed himself to remain completely still. The fingers were strong and warm, first loose around John’s arm, then boldly giving a slight rub back and forth. It was with profound regret, John thought, that Sherlock withdrew his hand after a few minutes, sighed, and turned restlessly in his bed.

When John awoke again the next morning, Sherlock was already up and looking at the files Lestrade had given them. And, the detective was quietly practicing his “EEEEOOOO” exercises to himself, stretching his lips then pursing them, over and over.

“Anything good?” John asked.

Sherlock shot him a glance that made the doctor laugh out loud.

“That easy, eh? At least you’re not out of practice.”

“Go in shawer,” Sherlock told him, closing the files.

“All right, just keep the water off your face. I’ll have breakfast ready when you get out.”

“Sc-owns?”

“I’ll see if there’s another box of the mix…yes, yes, here’s one. Sure, I’ll make them.”

The detective stood up and gave a nod, color suddenly flushing his cheeks. He pulled his purple dressing gown around his trim figure awkwardly, suddenly avoiding eye contact with his flatmate.

John stood still, not sure of what to expect. Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then head still lowered, looked at John through his thick eyelashes. Slowly, carefully shaping his lips, Sherlock formed the words:

“Jawn, yooou aw a goood min.”

_John, you are a good man._

“Oh,” John said, quite taken aback. It was obvious Sherlock had been practicing the words – and the nerve – to say this to the doctor all morning. “Thank you, Sherlock. I – I certainly am trying.”

Sherlock dropped his eyes and retreated to the bathroom, robe flowing behind him like a cape.

There was John’s answer, then.

It was not his touch that was good. Not the feel of his flesh on Sherlock. Not the affection and out right love – yes, that word, _love_ – John had shown in the care of his best friend.

He was just simply a good man.

The shower water was running for several minutes before John remembered to breath. And move. And start the scones.

###

For the next few days, life at 221B became an easy rhythm for the two men. After a leisurely breakfast, John caught up on emails and paperwork, while Sherlock reviewed the increasing number of files that Lestrade was sending over. Then there would be a short session of speech therapy with new exercises, with the speech therapist video-conferencing in. Sherlock would then retreat to his room, sometimes playing the violin, sometimes taking a nap, sometimes reading, or a combination of the three.

Where John once thought a bridge had been crossed, feelings expressed, fear breached that night when Sherlock had lain his cheek in John’s hand – no, he had been wrong. Obviously. John was just a good man.

John convinced himself that he was relieved. The other side of that bridge had held something tantalizing…but not realistic. He knew that now. There was no bridge. Just the gaping chasm between the two men.

A familiar restlessness began to grow in Sherlock. Where the detective had once craved mental stimulation with cases, there now seemed to be a physical anxiousness about him. He would tap his hands and feet almost continuously, pace, fidget. John encouraged Sherlock to accompany him on a walk, but instead the detective would push back the furniture in the living room and nimbly dancing on his feet, would punch the air in a boxing training routine until his forehead glistened with sweat. Come evening, John would prepare a homemade meal and they would sit and eat it while watching the evening news. Nights came early and Sherlock would disappear into his room once again, and ten minutes later, John would follow with the paper tucked under his arm. However, the cot had been folded up and placed against the wall and John slept in his own bedroom once again.

“I swear, you two are like an old married couple,” Mrs. Hudson remarked one day when she came up to visit. She was the only one Sherlock would not retreat from besides John, but he still would not utter a word in her presence. Instead, glares and huffs were his form of communication, which he expressed at that remark. “Well, it’s true! I haven’t seen the take away delivery man here for quite some time. John, all those groceries that get delivered are going to good use. I can tell.”

Indeed, both men had a bit more flesh on their bones from the healthier diet, with Sherlock’s pallid skin even showing some color.

“I fancy myself quite the cook,” John said. “I even have Sherlock eating vegetables.”

The detective replied with a growl and continued to rosen his bow.

“We go in for surgery tomorrow morning,” John continued. “It will be an overnight stay at the hospital, so when we are not home tomorrow night, don’t worry.”

“Is it the nose, then?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

John nodded and glanced over at the detective, who had taken a sudden and immediate interest in a speck of dust on his violin. There was still a white tent of a bandage over Sherlock’s nose, but it was more to hide the injury than to promote its healing. The wound was scabbed and the remnants of the appendage damaged and misshapen.

“Yes. It will be fine,” John said more to Sherlock, who looked up at the words.

“Of course it will,” nodded Mrs. Hudson. “But how do they do it?”

“What do you mean?” John said, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock’s to return his attention to their landlady. “Ah, the parts for the nose? It’s from a cadaver. The cartilage, that is. The skin is actually grown in a lab.”

“Ooh! Well, I guess that’s a good use for it, then! Good luck, Sherlock,” she said, rising out of the chair and giving the detective a kiss on the forehead. “You be good for the doctors – especially John. Good night, boys.”

“Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Hmph.”

John carried the tea cups into the kitchen. “Should probably head on into bed. Big day tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder. Sherlock stood up and began to play his violin, his back to John, long legs ramrod straight, arms at precise angles as he glided the bow effortlessly over the strings. The melody was one John had never heard before, strong but slow, complex but sweet. Sherlock’s nimble fingers pounced on the strings, directing the movement of the piece in a way that made John realized this was a Sherlock original.

_There has never been a man like you_ , thought John as he carefully set down the cups _. A genius and an Adonis. I’m happy just to know that you have let me into your life. Even if this is all we ever have: this impossibly frustrating friendship._

“Beautiful, Sherlock,” John applauded when the detective finished and turned around to face his doctor. “One of your own, I can tell.”

Sherlock smiled his lopsided smile and pointed his bow at John in affirmation.

“Best get some good sleep, now. Big day tomorrow. I’ll be in to read in a few minutes.”

Then Sherlock did something John never expected. He put down his violin and bow, marched over to him with purpose, clasped him by the hand, and led him into the bedroom. Sherlock directed John into his customary chair and the detective sat on the edge of the bed, facing him.

John clenched the arms of the chair, waiting. Sherlock slowly moved his mouth and lips in an exaggerated fashion, slowly forming the sounds.

“Jawn, ef I die toomaurrooo – “

John’s heart stopped. “Wait just a minute. You are not going to die tomorrow. It’s a straightforward procedure that this particular doctor has performed a number of times!”

Sherlock growled and punched the bed in frustration. John realized his mistake. He needed to just let the poor man talk. The fear and vexation present in the detective were a hot hurricane of feelings that Sherlock would not normally be able to express – but now, with his injuries and John’s impatience, it was infinitely more impossible.

“I’m sorry. Please. Go ahead,” John soothed, clenching the arms of the chair again in an effort not to reach forward and take Sherlock’s hand. The detective took in a massive breath and began again.

“Ef I toomaurrooo, thees ees awl yooors,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the room and the flat beyond. His eyes beseeched John to implore him to understand.

“This is all mine. Yes, I understand.”

“Ey git allooowence end et will be yooors.”

“You get an allowance and it will all be yours – mine. Wait, what? Sherlock!”

The detective squeezed his eyes shut and fiercely shook his head, a silent plea for John not to argue.

“Ey neeed yooo tooo tell me waat haa-end.”

“You need me to tell you…what happened,” John recited. “Oh, Sherlock, at the lab? When you were attacked? You mean all this time – you did not remember?”

Where John was expressing surprise and regret, Sherlock took it as an affront. The detective stood up abruptly and stormed over to his dresser and pulled out his pajamas, his back to John. Waves of anger flowed from him. John mentally kicked himself – hard.

_Why am I being such an idiot right now?_

“Sherlock, I had no idea you didn’t remember. I should have realized. It’s completely normal for a traumatic experience to be wiped from someone’s brain – even yours.” John saw Sherlock’s shoulders relax an inch at the compliment as he pulled off his shirt and replaced it with a silken top. John stared down at his hands, now clenched in his lap, as Sherlock changed out of his pants. The room was silent for several minutes and John finally looked up at Sherlock, who returned a burning glare.

“I’ll tell you what I know. There was a string of murders of young women. Their bodies had been found quite disfigured…okay, you remember all that. Strange chemicals had been found at each scene, and you were in the lab at St. Bart’s one night, analyzing them. According to phone records, you called Lestrade and sent him to pick up one of the suspects for questioning, based on some result at the lab. We had narrowed it down to four men at the time, all four men at been present at various times at the same pubs where the girls had been before they had been murdered. It turned out this suspect – James Holloway – was also a night janitor at St. Bart’s. He had been stealing chemicals from the hospital for his own uses. Mr. Holloway’s wife called and told him that the police were looking for him. Turns out he was working that night at St. Bart’s and found you in the lab. Now he’s a big boy, this Holloway. Beefy, tall, strong,” John paused and took several long breathes, trying to pull himself together. Recounting this was suddenly very hard. Sherlock’s eyes softened and he came around to sit on the edge of the bed again near John.

“I wasn’t there when they found you, but I saw the lab. You put up a hell of a fight, Sherlock. The place was destroyed,” the two men shared a wry smile. “He must have just gotten a lucky shot and knocked you out. The thing is…Holloway was an amateur taxidermist. The chemicals found at the scene that nobody could figure out were chemicals he used to - , Sherlock, I can’t.” John clenched and unclenched his hands, suddenly finding it very hard to speak. A mist covered his eyes and he shook his head, staring at the floor. Then he felt the familiar weight of fingers on his forearm.

“Tehl may,” Sherlock urged.

“Tell you? What is there to tell except this horrible piss-poor excuse for a human took the same chemicals used to melt the flesh off hides of animals and used them on your face.” The words spilled out so fast that John was not sure if Sherlock’s silence was shock or lack of understanding of what John had said.

 “Am sowry,” Sherlock’s hand squeezed John’s arm.

“Don’t be sorry,” John said, blinking away a tear that threatened to spill over. He finally met Sherlock’s eyes and discovered the detective had tears of his own. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you didn’t know what happened. Sometimes I am too busy being your doctor, and forget to be your friend.”

“Gud at both.” Sherlock’s hand slid down and into the tangle of John’s fingers, and John rubbed the knuckles of that beautiful hand with the pad of his thumb. The doctor found his head suddenly light and he was grateful to be sitting down.

_Don’t move don’t breathe don’t speak don’t leave this moment -_

“Schleeep here.”

“Sure, I can sleep here. Let me get some sheets for the cot.”

“Naw. Shcleep here,” Sherlock patted his bed with his free hand.

Now John was really glad he was sitting down. He processed what Sherlock had said a thousand times in that split second to insure he was not misunderstanding his friend. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with fright, most likely mirroring the terror in John’s, but the smallest bit of a shy smile graced the man’s lips.

“Sure,” John managed. “I’ll be right back.” He managed to get himself out of the chair and upstairs to change. Frantically he dug for some old pajama pants as he usually slept in a t-shirt and boxers, cursing as he rummaged through his drawers, then praising _Lord God!_ when he found them. Downstairs again, he found the bedroom dark and Sherlock already beneath the covers.

John slid beneath the covers as gently as he could, but his shaking hands and hammering heart made him feel clumsy. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and licked his lips nervously.

_I’m in Sherlock’s bed, by his invitation._ _Oh my God._  

In the dark, Sherlock turned on his side to face John.

“Goood nihht,” the detective whispered. John turned his head to look at Sherlock. The lights from Baker Street backlit his face so John was unable to read his expression, but provided a halo-like effect through his short hair.

“Good night. And you’ll be fine tomorrow. Please don’t worry.”

Sherlock responded with a sound that could be translated as, “What, me worry?” and John smiled.

“Nooo nooooz.”

“Yes, new nose.”

“Wihl yooo red?”

“What, read the newspaper now?”

“Naw, hat hoos-ital.”

“Yes, I’ll read to you at the hospital. Now go to sleep or I’m moving over to the cot.”

“Nawt ti-red.”

“Sherlock! Go to sleep!”

John felt the bed move as Sherlock rustled beneath the covers. “Kay.” Slender fingers crept up on John’s forearm and the doctor stared up at the ceiling through the darkness, attempting to keep his breathing slow and regular. John covered the fingers with his other hand, encapsulating Sherlock’s.

“Everything….is going to be all right,” John whispered slowly. Sherlock gave a gentle sigh, the wisps of his breath caressing John’s cheek like a warm, summer wind.

_Have some guts, man, he invited you into his bed…don’t lay here like a corpse -!_

Slowly, John turned on his side to face Sherlock, and placed his hand on the detective’s cheek, so that his fingertips caressed Sherlock’s good ear and the fringe of short hair that surrounded it. John felt Sherlock stiffen for a moment, then relax under the doctor’s gentle touch.

“All right?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded under John’s hand. They were close now, their faces just inches apart, in the same bed, under the same covers. But the seeds of doubt had been planted too deeply in John’s mind: _“Jawn, yooou aw a goood min.”_ Was that all Sherlock wanted? John to be his ‘good man’ – not his lover? John had been _so_ close to saying _so_ much _so_ many times that if he did something now and Sherlock rejected him, John felt he would surely –

John slid forward and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, pressing his lips firmly against the warm skin.

_There, it was done_ , John thought as he withdrew, mentally clenching his heart protectively against what may occur next.

“Ooh,” murmured Sherlock, and slid forward and curled up like a child under John’s chin. The detective was outright trembling against the doctor’s body.

“Jawn. Theer es sooo much,” Sherlock gasped, through clenched teeth.

_John, there is so much._

John instantly understood what Sherlock was trying to say: there was so much to say, so much fear, so much risk, so much to be afraid of –

“So much,” John repeated in agreement, but he could only hope that Sherlock would understand his meaning: that, yes, there was so much risk, but so much reward, so much life to live, so much love to share. John’s hand moved naturally to his flatmate’s back, pressing into Sherlock, holding him close.

“I don’t know if I ever told you this story,” John began. “But I solved a bit of a mystery when I was in Afghanistan. We had these amazing peanut butter bars in the mess – sounds trivial for sure, but when you are in a war zone, the smallest things seem to have greater meaning. They were the right amount of crunch and peanut butter and I wish I could find them now – well, anyway, when we got a supply of them, they had to be rationed or there would have been a riot.” John felt Sherlock relax just the slightest under his arm. The trembling slowed to the occasional quake, and Sherlock began to take slow, easy breathes. John sensed he was still listening and dropped his voice lower, hoping it would lull the detective to sleep. He rubbed his chin against the top of Sherlock’s head, and drank in the scent of the man, the feel of his body so close, the warmth and comfort between them.  

“Well, someone realized they were starting to disappear at a more rapid rate than usual. Of course, everyone blamed the supply Sargent, but he had a peanut allergy and didn’t go near the bars. He had the only key to the supplies, and the men decided he should relinquish it to me. Voted most trustworthy, I guess. But I’ll finish this some other time. Big day tomorrow.”

“Mmph,” was the reply, and John could not determine if it was a sound of agreement or protest as he himself stifled a yawn.

 “Sleep now. I’m your John, and you’re my Sherlock.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for another surgery. And it's John that feels he is getting cut open.

** Chapter Seven **

The next morning when John awoke, he was momentarily disorientated. He was in Sherlock’s room, but not in the cot –

Ah, yes. The bed.

The empty bed.

John slid out from under the covers and padded into the living room, where Sherlock, fully dressed, was standing by the window, hands tucked into his pockets, overlooking Baker Street. He turned to John and smiled his lopsided, very endearing smile.

John returned it and felt the tingle of a blush creep into his cheeks.

“Good morning. I’m going to hop into the shower, and then we’ll get going. Only a few sips of water this morning, remember. Nothing to eat.” The detective nodded and turned back to the window. In less than 20 minutes, they were seated in one of Mycroft’s cars on their way to St. Bart’s. At first they both sat quietly, comfortably, gazing through the windows, hands tucked in each of their own laps. But somehow during the short journey, hands had crept across the empty seat between them, so they were joined, fingertips laced, upon the arrival to St. Bart’s.

Sherlock was quickly gathered by the staff as soon as they stepped through the designated back entrance, so that John did not have a moment to say – well, he was not quite sure what he would have said. He simply stood by the doors, watching the tall, dark-haired figure march down the hallway surrounded by staff, only realizing that he had the Belstaff coat draped over his arm when Sherlock was gone from sight.

“Dr. Watson?” An attractive young woman appeared, hand outstretched. “Will you come with me, please? We’ve arranged a waiting room for you.”

“Oh, I can just sit in the regular one, you needn’t bother.”

“I was told that if certain, um, people saw you here, they would assume Mr. Holmes was here as well. And we would like to be discreet as possible.”

“Ah, Mycroft at work,” John nodded. “Lead the way.”

The waiting room was a large lounge area with one whole wall of windows overlooking the parking lot and blue-gray tired furniture. An offering tray of sandwiches and bottled waters sat on one of the tables. John attempted to watch the tele, but ended up shutting it off after a few minutes, annoyed by the talking heads of the news shows and the canned laughter of the sit-coms. Instead, feeling a restlessness, he pushed back the furniture and dancing on his toes, boxed at the air until sweat beaded his brow.

“Whew, that does feel good,” he said out loud, breathlessly.

“You may want to take a break, he has a few more hours to go,” Mycroft said as he entered the room.

“Mycroft! How kind of you to be here,” John said dryly. “Keep this up, and Sherlock may think you care.”

“Sherlock knows I care. Do you?”

“Why should that matter?” John retorted, grabbing a water bottle and taking a long sip. Mycroft did not answer, but instead sat down and crossed his legs, planting his umbrella in the carpet. An audience, apparently, was being demanded.

John flopped down in an overstuffed armchair across from Mycroft and waited.

“Let me tell you about brother mine, John. The man has escaped death more times than I care to count. In the time you have known him, you have certainly seen that. That kind of luck can lead a person to think they are a bit…illustrious. Now of course my heart would break if anything happened to him, so I have always done what I could, in the ways that I could, to make sure that he survived any kind of deathly scenario as well. In my small way, I have contributed to his sense of…immortality.”

Mycroft paused, and John searched his face for some sort of indication of where this conversation was leading.

“….and?” John prompted.

“But I believe that right now, our dear Sherlock has realized that death could come knocking on his door just like anyone else. This may make him, uh, make choices that – well.” Mycroft stood up and walked over to the table with the plate of sandwiches and stared at them.

“You’re saying that Sherlock, in his current state of mind, has the potential for making foolish choices,” John said, anger beginning to creep into his voice.

“I’m saying that I need you to be the adult in this situation,” came the monotone reply.

John rose to his feet, aware of the fury that was fueling his thumping heart.

“Sherlock is still quite the immature little boy when it comes to decisions of the heart. He has little experience in the matter,” Mycroft continued.

“In the _matter_ ,” John repeated, seething. Sherlock’s brother turned to John in surprise, eyebrows raised.

“Surely, Dr. Watson, you don’t think that Sherlock – well, in this moment you are simply another experiment to him -,”

John moved so swiftly Mycroft startled to see the doctor suddenly standing directly in front of him. Had one asked Mycroft later if they stood eye to eye, he would have said yes, though that was physically impossible due to their difference in heights. But John had in that instance, in that moment, become so much larger than himself, Mycroft was certain the man had grown a good six inches.

“You listen to me,” John hissed, eyes dark and dangerous as a demon’s. “If you think for one _moment_ I would take advantage of a person in a vulnerable state, if you think for one _moment_ Sherlock needs an adult to guide him, if you think for one _moment_ that our relationship is simply a _matter_ , Mycroft Holmes, then it is not your brother that is being the immature little boy. You stay away from _him_ , you stay away from _me_ , and you stay _away from us_.”

John’s chest heaved with emotion and he knew he was exhausting heavy, hot breathes on poor Mycroft’s face, but he did not care. John’s finger was deeply embedded in the elder Holmes’ vest, and he realized he had been accentuating pronouns with jabs of it. Mycroft’s face sagged, and he dropped his gaze.

“Do I make myself perfectly clear?” John insisted.

“Yes. Perfectly.”

“Excellent.” John took a step back and nodded, then glanced at his watch. “Three hours in now. At least another three. Help yourself to a sandwich. We have some ways to go.”

**

It was five hours later when the young lady that had initially escorted John to the waiting room came to fetch him. Mycroft had excused himself after glumly accepting a sandwich, leaving John to stare out the window, pace, punch, seethe, and sweat all by himself. Two surgeons met John outside Sherlock’s post-operative recovery room.

The procedure went exceptionally well, they assured him. Lots of bruising and swelling, new skin taking nicely, vitals being monitored, he is just now coming out of anesthesia.  John listened and nodded, the doctor part taking in all the information, the other side of him ever so eager to go in and see Sherlock, to comfort him, to be with him. Just to be with him.

When the doctors finally finished and gave John the go ahead, he paused for a moment with his hand on the door. He knew he had to mentally steel himself. He had seen plenty of war injuries, it was not the blood or gore that he was worried about – it was seeing Sherlock, hurting, that was going to get to John the most. He gave himself a nod and proceeded to push the door open.

The light in the room was low, monitors beeping softly, nurses padding around on quiet feet. The room seemed…reverent. And there, lying there on the hospital bed among wires and oxygen lines, was Sherlock. The detective was sitting up for proper drainage due to the sight of the operation, assuring an open and clear airway through his mouth, as his nose was covered with a large tent of white gauze. John gently took up the detective’s hand in his, brow furrowed as he visually inspected the patient. Sherlock was pale, his pink lips outstanding against his pallid skin, lips parted slightly to breath. John ducked in quickly and placed a kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Zzzawn,” Sherlock murmured, eyelids fluttering.

“You’re all good, you are just waking up. Easy now,” John whispered, smiling through tears, as he pushed a stray hair off his forehead. John relinquished the detective’s hand to a nurse for a pulse and stood out of the way, watching as Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness, slowly sleeping off the medicine, and experiencing a joy like no other as the detective’s eyes – as surrounded by bruises as they were - would close and then reopen long moments later with a light in them, a light of bliss upon seeing John still there.

“See there, it’s all good. You’re going to be sore in the mouth, so we’ve got some soft food for you here. You let me know when you think you can eat, even just a few bites. We’ll try in a bit, yeah? Cheeks and eyes are going to hurt, too. Everything has got to settle into place. I brought your phone so it’s just like old times, texting me every minute of the day,” John moved back easily into his monologue, knowing how the sound of his voice soothed Sherlock. “Don’t you worry, all that talking got you ahead of the game, you’ll be starting right back up again at it once the swelling goes down, we have to keep that face moving, no slowing you down.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed again, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin, and someone tapped John on the shoulder. It was Mycroft’s assistant.

“Is there anything that you require, Dr. Watson?” she asked.

“No but thank you. I think we are good. Will you be letting Mycroft know -?”

“He’s already aware of his brother’s progress. Here, my card. Please let me know if you need anything, at any time.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“Good luck to you both, and good night.”

“Good night.”

The nurses also filed out, and John released a large breath. Finally, they were alone.

Sherlock groaned, seeking John from under heavy-lidded eyes where the bruising was becoming quite the deep blues and purples. The bandaging in and around Sherlock’s nose forced the detective to part his lips to breath.

“Got some pain?” John asked, resuming his seat on the edge of the bed and pressing Sherlock’s cell phone into the man’s hand, but the detective shook his head.

“No. Ew okay?” Sherlock rasped.

“Yes, I’m okay,” John replied, surprised, but then quickly realized Sherlock was putting up his front, placing his line, telling John not to baby him. The nurses, the circumstance, already made the detective to feel vulnerable enough. There was certainly pain, but John would address it when Sherlock determined it was time.

“Nuu nuuze.”

“Yes, new nose. Rest now, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes already closed, breaths coming slow and easy. John reluctantly slid off the bed and fussed with the covers and adjusted the IV and heart monitor lines. A nurse came by to check in, assuring John that he could stay the night in the bed in the other half of the room. As he opened his night bag in preparation, he felt the crinkle of newspaper underneath his spare clothes in the bag. Sherlock had packed it without John’s knowledge.

“You little devil,” John whispered with a grin. “Had to make sure that I would read to you. Well, I promised.” He pulled up a chair to Sherlock’s bedside, unfolded the daily, and cleared his throat. “Aha, here’s a good story, let’s start here: ‘London officials have determined that the cause of death in yesterday’s Ardent Street murder….’”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bandages are removed and more than skin is revealed.

** Chapter Eight **

**TO: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth** [ **swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com** ](mailto:swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com) **; Dr. Benjamin Ballard <bballard@stbartshospital.com>**

**FROM: Dr. John Watson <jwastson@consultingdetective.com>**

**SUBJECT: SH**

**Dr. Wadsworth and Dr. Ballard,**

**Good morning! Things continue to go well here. As indicated by my prior emails, patient is no longer requesting pain meds and continues his course of antibiotics, 200 mg 3x daily with meal. Still complains of difficulty sleeping in the required sitting up position, and mouth dryness, but I have been assuring him that will be remedied once bandages are removed – which is later on today! I very much appreciate your flexibility in being able to perform that task here at our flat. The patient has… emphatically refused to revisit St. Bart’s anytime soon. Thank you for your understanding.**

**We look forward to your visit later today!**

**JW**

“All set!” John said aloud as he hit SEND.

“Hmph,” Sherlock replied, lounging in his chair across from John. Both men had their laptops perched on their laps, but John snapped his closed.

“How are you feeling about later today?” John asked. Sherlock looked up at his flat mate with a frown. “Bandages are coming off today, remember? No more mouth breathing. New nose. Sleeping laying down! Much excitement to be had!”

“Doctuurs,” was the droll reply. Sherlock’s enunciation of sound had improved since the surgery two weeks ago – John was a drill sergeant with the speech therapy drills - but his packed nose made him sound chronically congested.

“Hey, easy there, remember what I am!” John laughed, standing and stretching. “And you are lucky enough to find two outstanding doctors that are willing to make house visits.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand as the doctor turned to head into the kitchen, and John looked at him in surprise. Mischief alighted the detective’s eyes.

“Theer’s only onnnn doctuur I whaant for huz viseests.”

_There’s only one doctor I want for house visits._

“Very cute,” John replied, relishing the feel of their hands together. John had resorted to at first sleeping in the cot next to Sherlock’s bed after the recent surgery. Sherlock needed plenty of space and pillows to sleep sitting up, but no matter what, the detective could not sleep comfortably. Sherlock would toss and turn, pound the pillows, get up and pace, grumble and stomp. When he did manage to sleep, he grunted and snored. John did what he could to make the poor man comfortable, but in the end, the doctor had to retreat back to his bedroom upstairs to be able to get any sleep himself. Sherlock had understood.

They had never spoken of that night together in Sherlock’s bed, but since then, there was an ease and comfort in being with each other that had not been there before. They wanted to be together, near each other, always in the same room. They shared silly, flirting remarks, touched a hand, or rested a head on each other’s shoulders. John still read the paper each night, and with Sherlock’s growing confidence in his speech, they talked more about simple, every day things. And about themselves. John knew now, without question, that Sherlock knew more about him than any other person on this earth – and perhaps, vice versa.

“Whaaat well I luk like?” Sherlock whispered, his doubt-filled eyes intent on their still-clasped hands.

_What will I look like?_

John returned to his seat and leaning forward, took Sherlock’s hand in both of his. This was a question that had been raised many times in the past weeks: the detective’s concern with the outcome of the plastic surgery. John had dutifully provided the same, reassuring answers.  “You saw the computer imaging the doctors did, Sherlock. They measured every picture of you they could get their hands on – imaged them, studied them, and created your new nose from that information.” John sought out the detective’s worried eyes. “It’s skin and bone, so it’s not going to be exactly like it was. But very, very close,” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and the detective finally raised his eyes. “It’s going to be all right.”

They had ended up staying three days at the hospital since once again, Sherlock had fallen into the pattern of not eating and getting sick from the strong medication. Although John had insisted that once Sherlock was home he would drastically improve, but the insolent plastic surgeon, Dr. Ballard, did not listen. When Dr. Wadsworth had found out about the situation, she intervened and sent them home, but not before Dr. Ballard had given John tutorials on how to change the bandages and moisturize the sutures.

John bit his lip during the instruction, thinking about the war wounded he had bandaged, thankful for once that Sherlock’s sharp tongue could translate well into a text message. John would never forget one heinous message Sherlock held up to Dr. Ballard to read from his phone that got the plastic surgeon’s ears literally burning a brilliant red. John believed it was something about how John should bandage a certain part of Dr. Ballard’s anatomy very tightly -

For the two weeks that they had been home, John was careful to again pay attention to the needs of his patient, but also not to smother him. There were things that Sherlock just wanted – and needed – to do on his own. Getting up and brushing his hair and teeth, for instance, was something John would allow Sherlock to do, even if it was awkward or difficult and John knew he could do it better if he helped. But Sherlock had pride, and this entire situation had knocked London’s consulting detective down several notches. And if ministrating his own personal hygiene was going to help the man get on his feet again, then John was not going to stand in his way.

Every afternoon, John removed the bandages to moisturize the sutures. The doctor had to work hard at controlling his face as he did so, as Sherlock watched John for any kind of sign – of anything. A twinge of worry. A clenched jaw of disgust. Darting eyes to infection. John concentrated on keeping his face as flaccid as possible, knowing that Sherlock’s eyes were just centimeters away.

It was hard. Once the swelling began to recede, the large black sutures that were used to bind together skin graphs were apparent, wide X’s running across Sherlock’s new nose, halfway up his forehead, and partially across each cheek. At first the doctor had to admit the surgery only seemed to produce a jumbled mess of flesh; but as healing began, he was reassured. Sherlock didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want a mirror, didn’t want the progress described. He put himself in the dark – quite literally, as he brushed his hair and teeth in the dark with the mirror covered with a towel. It was no wonder the detective was fearful of the outcome and this was the only way he could express it.

“You will see the result today. No more hiding. It’s going to be all right,” John repeated.

And indeed, it was.

When the doctors and a nurse arrived, toting instruments and equipment, Sherlock nervously and rudely denied them tea and steered them to his bedroom. He lay on the bed while they removed the dressings, the inner supports and packing inside the nose, and suctioned and examined him. One doctor stood on either side, John at the foot of the bed, pretending not to be nervous. The doctors soothed Sherlock through it, and although he lay as still as a mannequin, John watched as the detective’s fists clenched in pain through the uncomfortable process. John brought over additional lamps as the stitches were carefully removed, one by one.

“Perfect,” Dr. Ballard, the young plastic surgeon, stated as he investigated Sherlock’s nose with a bright light. “Swelling will increase again where the stitches were, but skin is pink and healthy, cartilage appears firm, septum straight. Yes, perfect, if I do say so myself.”

Sherlock’s eyes were only on John, seeking reassurance. “Sherlock, it looks really, really good. I mean that,” John said, amazed. There were some trace lines of were the skin had been joined, much like his cheek, but they had been tucked into the natural contours of Sherlock’s face. In a few more months, John knew that if he didn’t know where to look for those scars, he wouldn’t even know there were there. But his nose was back. John was looking at Sherlock for the first time in months without bandages and with a complete nose and it felt like he was looking at Sherlock for the first time – ever. John felt his heart leap.

_I am in love with this man – why did I ever wait so long to know it?_

“So handsome,” he heard himself say. Dr. Wadsworth and the nurse smiled at his words.

 “Would you like a mirror?” Dr. Wadsworth offered kindly. Sherlock regarded her with hesitation, but she pressed her cell phone, set on selfie-mode, into his hand. With a glance at John who nodded encouragement, Sherlock carefully looked into the phone.

“Ooh,” escaped his lips so involuntarily that the three doctors broke into wide smiles. “Eets me!”

“Yes, it’s you,” John said, his voice trembling with emotion.

“That’s gud,” affirmed Sherlock, nodding, eyes alight. “I can beeth!” He took in a large breath through his nose but then winced.

“Careful, now, everything is still very tender. The nurse will set you up with a nasal flush, which you must perform regularly and gently, three times a day. There will be a bit of pain at first, but nothing your meds can’t take care of easily. Finish the antibiotics…anything else, Dr. Wadsworth?” Dr. Ballard said.

“There will be lots of drainage, let us know if it’s anything alarming. Keep up with the massager…and I think that’s it. Let’s give you a few weeks to adjust and heal, then we will be getting going on that ear. And, uh, I will need my phone back, please,” she joked, as Sherlock was continuing to investigate his new appendage closely in its reflection. He handed it back, abashed, but was quickly appeased when John handed him his own phone to replace it.

John walked the doctors and nurse out, and at the door, shook their hands. “Thank you so much. I know its certainly not conventional to make house calls. We very much appreciate it.”

“Sherlock has done a lot for this city. It’s our pleasure,” Dr. Ballard replied. _We didn’t really have a choice_ was what he really meant. Mycroft at work again.  They bid their good-byes and John returned to the bedroom.

“It looks really…it’s amazing,” John confessed, shaking his head, but Sherlock shot him a look of doubt. “I’m telling the truth, Sherlock. I would never lie to you. It’s puffy right now, remember. It’s going to need a lot more time.”

The detective handed the phone back to John and lay back in the pillows, content. There was a sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s face from the recent pain, and a few stray curls clung to his forehead and neck. It was almost time for another haircut. Sherlock raised his hand, smiling shyly, and John grasped it. Sherlock gave John a tug on his hand, and John could only respond by sitting on the bed next to him.

“I liiick eet,” he said proudly.

“I like it, too.”

But then Sherlock’s face changed. It was a look that John had seen before – a strange fear that crept into his face, when there was something of an emotional nature he was seeking to communicate. It reminded John of a fearful child, reaching out to touch something new, filled with uncertainty, but tantalized by the reward.

 “I…I…cud neeever have dunn theese out yu.”

_I could never have done this without you._

“We are here for each other, Sherlock,” was John’s modest, but heartfelt, reply.

“Jawn,” the sun through the window struck Sherlock’s eyes at such an angle it gave them a luminescence. John was enchanted, and felt his lips part in a sigh. When the detective gave yet another tug on his hand, John leaned in.  

The two men touched lips, ever so lightly, just barely skin on skin, breath on breath, heat on gorgeous heat. There they stayed for a long moment, closer than ever before, each captivated by the moment. John felt the ghost of Sherlock’s eyelashes against his cheek as they slowly and reluctantly separated, not pulling away, but accepting the promise of more.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, and the detective nodded and pressed his lips together, as if wanting to preserve the taste of John in them. He looked up at his doctor, his flatmate, his friend, a bit more strength in his jawline, a bit more confidence in his eyes. John leaned in again, kissing him fully but gently, lips on lips this time for real, cradling Sherlock’s head in his hands. He felt the detective respond with equal pressure as he lay his hands on John’s shoulders.

After a moment, John reluctantly pulled away.

“If I bump that nose, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble,” he said, smiling down at Sherlock, hands still on Sherlock’s head, now running his fingers through the wild curls. “You should get some rest now. Hold on, what’s this?”

The side of Sherlock’s head where the hair had been slowly regrowing caught John’s attention. Portions of the new hair were long enough to be brushed back, and as John raked his fingernails down Sherlock’s scalp, he could see that portions of the new hair were a different color. Some of it was white. Sherlock put his hand over John’s, alarm on his face.

“It’s okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Looks like all this has been giving you some early greys,” John said easily. “Don’t worry, it’s very appealing. Here, you won’t be able to see…let me show you on my phone. There you go – oh, now don’t frown. Gray is a feature of maturity, you know!”

Sherlock dropped the phone to look up at John’s silver locks, still frowning.

“Not fur me,” the detective said.

 _You are the eternal youth, the Adonis,_ John thought. “Get some rest,” he repeated, pulling a light cover over Sherlock. “You are finally going to get some good sleep.” Indeed, the detective’s eyes were already drooping, and he could only nod in response. John reluctantly stood up but stood by the door for a long moment, pondering the quiet, lean figure that lay reposed in the bed. Sherlock’s chest rose and fell quietly, his lips still open slightly, but John could already tell that the fear that the detective had been carrying for these long two weeks was beginning to fade. The operation had been a success. Sherlock looked like Sherlock again, though John knew if the procedure had ended up making the man looking like a monster he would still never leave.

For the first time in a truly long time, John felt _grounded_. This was to be his life now, with this man, in this flat. Without knowing it, what he had unconsciously craved had come to fruition. His feet had grown roots to imbed in these wood floors, his heart had grown to embrace that insidious, crazy man, and he was complete. Their kiss had sealed it.

This was all he ever needed.

He closed the bedroom door quietly and nearly had a heart attack as he turned and faced Mrs. Hudson, who had been standing in the hallway.

“Mrs. Hudson! Jesus!” John hissed, clutching his chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry John. How is Sherlock? Does...everything look all right?”

“Yes, better than all right. Come, let’s have some tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“John?”

“Hm?”

“I brought up some tea,” she replied, wringing her hands.

“Well, thank you. Eh, is everything all right?”

Mrs. Hudson surprised John by bursting into tears. “Oh, I’m usually not this emotional. But it’s all so sad, you know?”

John led the landlady into the living room and sat with her on the couch. She continued.

“You two used to be in and out, chasing people, explosions, clients -,” her hands flailed. “I don’t know if you will ever get Sherlock to come out of his, well…depression.”

“Depression?”

“Yes, John, I know as a doctor you understand it better than me. But when I hear him play his violin, its always so sad, and he never leaves the flat. Afraid people will see him? And hear him talk like he does? Will he ever get better?”

John felt his body go numb. His eyes glazed and he stared at Mrs. Hudson, unblinking.

_What the hell is she talking about?_

And then he felt his mouth open and he was talking and it was all very benign, as if he was addressing one of his patients in his military days, providing a front and saying all the right things, as untruthful as they could be. Being the reassuring doctor, voicing the words without feeling, turning the subject to something more cheerful, and finally sending Mrs. Hudson on her way with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to visit again very, very soon.

He closed the door behind her and realized thick clamps encased his chest and he was unable to breath. Sinking to his knees, John closed his eyes and focused on controlling the panic that clasped his entire body like a tight fist.

_Depression._

_No, it couldn’t be. I would have noticed. Or am I too selfish, too concerned with keeping him all to myself, being the caretaker, the one that saves him, the savior, the self-serving love-sick bastard that is too blind to see it._

_“Bored, John! Bored, bored, bored!”_

_“It’s like Christmas!”_

_“YES!  Another murder!”_

Cases were his drug. Clients an aphrodisiac. Yet the files that Lestrade had provided were sitting, unopened, unsolved, on Sherlock’s desk. What had happened to the energy that Sherlock had exuded, the rush that he craved?

_And what happened to mine?_

The contentment of a few minutes ago was gone. John hung his head and forced the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was floating again, groundless, not belonging, a creature rejected.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reaches out for help, and Sherlock reaches out for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers, I am so appreciative of those that have stuck with the story, and hopefully will stay to see it through! I had originally planned this as a ten chapter fic, but alas, I am now outlining 15...so there is more to come. I would really appreciate your thoughts on this chapter in particular; it was by far the hardest for me to write thus far. I sought a balance between John's doubt and Sherlock's fears, and the collapse of the barriers for each of them. Of course, I wanted to make it sexy but realistic...anyway, before I reveal too much, read on! And thank you again!

** Chapter Nine **

**TO: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth** [ **swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com** ](mailto:swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com)

**FROM: Dr. John Watson <jwatson@consultingdetective.com>**

**SUBJECT: SH**

**Samantha,**

**Thank you again for your recent visit. Things are going well…but its not the physical recovery of our patient I wished to discuss with you this morning. As his progress continues, I certainly would like to make sure any issues of trauma or even possibly depression are addressed. Is there anyone you can recommend?**

**Thank you, once again.**

**JW**

“Well, shit,” John whispered as he hit SEND. To his surprise, Dr. Wadsworth’s reply came in a few minutes later as he was lost in thought, staring at the screen.

**TO: Dr. John Watson <jwatson@consultingdetective.com>**

**FROM: Dr. Samantha Wadsworth** [ **swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com** ](mailto:swadsworthmd@stbartshospital.com)

**SUBJECT: SH**

**John,**

**Thank you for your email. It’s not an easy thing to ask for help, but I am so glad you did. You are the one that knows our patient best and if you feel that therapy would be the best course, I can certainly recommend a professional (a list is attached, the ones that I marked are my personal choices).**

**I also wanted to apologize – I did not mean to place you in an awkward position when I asked you out to dinner a while ago. I didn’t realize the relationship that existed – and seeing you there with him the other day, it warmed my heart to see two amazing men hold each other so dear in each other’s hearts. And of course, the knowledge of this will not go any further than me.**

**Please don’t hesitate if you need anything else. And of course, I’ll be in touch next week regarding the next surgery.**

**Sam**

“Jawn?” A sleepy-eyed Sherlock trudged into the living room, scratching his head, dark blue dressing gown billowing around him.

“Good morning! A good night of sleep, I presume?”

“Mm-hmm,” Sherlock walked over to John’s chair, stood beside it, and proceeded to hug John’s head to his stomach. “But lon-lee.”

John closed his eyes and smiled, relishing the feel of his flatmate’s warm, silken pajamas against his cheek.

“Tonight,” John promised, looking up, and seeing too late Sherlock scanning the open email on John’s laptop.

“Tre – threpapy -,” Sherlock stuttered, his eyes wide. He pushed John away. “Ey don – dawnt - ! Ey _fine!”_

“Sherlock, let’s talk about this before you get all upset,” John soothed, standing. But it was too late. Red splotches of anger mottled Sherlock’s chest and neck and he shook his head heatedly. He held his hands up, palms toward John as if pushing him away.

“Ey fine! FINE!”

“Do you really think so?” John bristled. “You don’t care about cases anymore! You used to be bored, bored, if you had time on your hands. Now you want to sleep all day. You just woke up – it’s 11 am! You don’t want to leave the flat. The kitchen hasn’t seen a microscope in ages, the fridge is clean of body parts! What am I supposed to think?” John quieted his voice from a shout to a whisper, his words slow and measured. “I’m worried, Sherlock. I’m worried. Please. I want to make sure…you are all right.”

Sherlock’s face was twisted with emotion – rage, surprise, helplessness. Hands on his head, he spun around, and paced the room. John stood, letting the detective work it out, feeling his own heart pound loudly in his chest.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock muttered. He stopped suddenly and looked at John, eyes glistening with tears. “Ey fine. Pease.”

A sob escaped John. “I don’t want to lose you. I feel like – I feel like I just _found_ you. I waited so long, I’ve been so stupid.”

“Jawn,” Sherlock said, an unexpected smile on his lips, like the sun after the storm.

“I know, you’re fine. But maybe I’m not. Tell you what. I’m going to go back to my own therapist. It’s been a while. I could use a refresher. Just promise me you will at least think about it. You’ve been through so much, Sherlock. Just think about it.”

Eyebrows raised, that smile still alighting his face and reflected in his eyes, the detective shook his head, ‘no’. John laughed and wiped away his tears, but then the detective was there, those long, strong fingers doing it, caressing his cheeks, brushing back his hair. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pressing their bodies together.

“Ey’ve been her all-long.”

_I’ve been here all along._

“Yes, and I want to keep you here. Right here,” John claimed, pulling Sherlock even closer. They kissed, tasting the salt of each other’s tears. John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s back, fisting the silken gown. Sherlock explored John, tracing his hairline, his ear, his jawline with those tantalizing fingers. Lips on lips grew to tentative tongues, mouths widening. John could sense Sherlock was not altogether inexperienced, but must less so than he, so the doctor taught the eager student.

First a soft kiss on full lips, then just a kiss on one lip. A tongue stroke, mouth open just a bit. Take it back to a soft kiss again. Mouth wider this time, tongue on tongue. Sherlock grasped John’s hair to keep John from backing back down to the soft kisses again. The doctor pressed his hips to Sherlock’s and was met with equal pressure and a moan.

“Jawn,” Sherlock dropped his head into John’s neck, body quaking. They stood, locked together, for a long moment. John could have stood that way forever, holding this man, breathing him in, comforting him, but from what? Why was Sherlock so afraid? They had been flirting for a month, was the genius having second thoughts? Then John felt Sherlock’s whispered words against his skin, the detective’s face still tucked in against his neck, like a child hiding from a monster.

“But I’m dumang-ed.”

John pulled back and shook his head, not understanding. Sherlock’s mouth set tight and he waved a hand around his face as he pushed himself away.

“Dam- dam-,” he struggled with the enunciation, then angrily grabbed his phone, typing then putting it to John’s face to see. 

_I’m damaged._

It was as if time had stopped for John. There was only this moment, this room, this man, this feeling in his heart - of hope and confusion.

“ _Damaged_? You are not damaged, Sherlock Holmes. You are perfect,” the words came out of John before he could stop them. “You are the most amazing, arrogant, headstrong, handsome, brilliant person I will ever know. Minus a nose, an ear, an arm, you are still the same.”

Sherlock studied John, his face unreadable.

John swallowed and looked down at his hands. His body felt frozen.

“You may think this is all happening now because you are at your most vulnerable. Others may think that, too,” John paused there, purposefully leaving Mycroft’s name out of the conversation. “But sometimes it takes a traumatic incident to bring people together. To remind them of their mortality. To make them realize how they – I – cannot possibly have a life without you,” John finished, his voice weak.  He watched as his own fingers began to slowly clench into fists. He could not breath, his heart did not beat.

_I am a fool. He didn’t want this. What I thought Sherlock felt is all in my head –_

And that’s when the detective knelt before the doctor and placed his head full of soft curls against John’s hands.

“Jawn. Theere es so much,” Sherlock whispered.

And there it was. The testament, the truth. Sherlock did want this. A sob escaped John’s lips as air gushed back into his lungs. 

“Yes,” John managed, blinking back tears of relief and joy. “There is so much.”

John clasped a hand and led Sherlock into his bedroom. He sat the detective on the edge of the bed and stood between his knees. For once, he was taller than Sherlock. But he wanted to see the man and his every emotion, and this was the best way he could do it. Sherlock tilted his head up to John, eyes wide and a bit fearful.

“You fine?”

“Ey fine.”

John kissed Sherlock’s forehead and felt the detective relax. He even placed his hands on John’s hips, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of John’s jeans. Now it was John’s turn to caress Sherlock’s hair, to smooth his cheeks as they kissed, fingers carefully skirting the last remaining bandage over the disfigured ear.

John had kissed men before, and he was certain that Sherlock had, too. But to John, this man had the softest lips, the most sensuous tongue, the damn most sexy fingers that John had ever experienced, man or woman. And those fingers were creeping around to the front of John’s jeans and applying pressure to his increasing erection.

“Jesus,” John moaned, arching his back to increase the pressure. His body thrummed. He could not remember a time when he had ever been so turned on. But it was just not the physical. Knowing who it was that he was kissing made him lightheaded.  Without ceasing his soft kisses, John unbuttoned Sherlock’s silken pajama top and pushed it off his shoulders to reveal a smooth, alabaster chest.

“Naw, Sherwock,” the detective murmured. John pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders so that he lay back and John fell on the bed beside him, so they lay on their sides, face to face. The doctor placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest, his touch as light as a feather on the taught skin.

“Oh – oh,” Sherlock stammered, his eyes clenched.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John whispered. After a long moment, Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened, locking eyes with John. The sunlight slanted through the window, finding his eyes again, turning them hazel, then gray, then green, full of wonder and wide as a doe’s. But there was still fear, fear like John had never seen in the man before. The fear of emotional exposure, of dropping down every last shield, of being a true person. One that could love, but that could also be hurt.

“I’ve got you. It’s all right. It’s me.” John’s hand stroked Sherlock’s chest, from side to side, up on one shoulder and down again, each new portion touched eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the detective. John’s hand dropped lower, until he could feel the fluttering stomach of his companion under his palm.

“Kiss me,” John urged, barely recognizing his own voice, thick with need. Sherlock responded eagerly, and with a surge of boldness, John plunged his hand into the front of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and embraced his erection. The detective was hard, so hard, the pulse of his heart beating a staccato in his cock under John’s palm.

 “J-Jawn,” Sherlock sighed, his lips still seeking the doctor’s.

“You’re fine.”

“Ey – ey fine,” Sherlock lay a hand on John’s cheek as he began to stroke. Without realizing it, his thumb touched John’s lips and the doctor turned his head and took it into his mouth and sucked. Sherlock groaned, deep and desperate, his mouth no longer able to focus on kissing, too absorbed in the sensations that were flooding his body.

John increased the speed and pressure of his grasp, high on the feeling of granting this pleasure, of the movement of Sherlock’s entire body as they moved together, of the air between them heated with their gasps. Sherlock repeated John’s name over and over, a wonderful mantra surrounding them, a joyous trance, until his body twisted and convulsed. Sherlock tilted his head back in ecstasy, allowing John the pleasure of kissing and licking the exposed, elegant throat. He could feel the vibrations of Sherlock saying his name under his tongue and it nearly caused him to come. But it was Sherlock first, his cock now wet in John’s hand. The detective grabbed John close and hard, body quaking.

“Sh, sh,” John soothed. “It’s all right. It’s all fine. Relax.” John felt the sweat-dampened curls nod against his cheek. “This is supposed to be enjoyable. You liked that, didn’t you?” Another nod. “Come here, let me see you.” John pulled back and his eyes found Sherlock’s. The deep furrow between his eyes gone, but his eyes still held – John bit his lip at the thought – distrust?

“But – it’s you,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, it is me,” John smiled at him.

“You en me.”

“Might take some getting used to, but I like the idea – wait, don’t move -,” the doctor scuttled off the bed to grab a tissue to wipe away the droplet of blood that appeared under Sherlock’s nose. “We should maybe refrain from too much, eh, exertion until we are sure you are healed up.” Indeed, Sherlock was pale, the red lines of his scars in stark contrast to his pallid skin. With a shaky hand he accepted a new tissue.

“Lay back down, it’s just a bit – ouff!” John exclaimed as Sherlock wrapped his long arms around him and pulled him back down on the bed. The detective patted his nose with the tissue for a moment, then seeing no more blood, tossed it on the ground.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock murmured as he crawled up over John, his fingers creeping up under his shirt and his lips on John’s neck. The doctor shivered but otherwise did not move, letting the detective explore him piece by piece, long fingers unbuttoning his shirt, touching his chest and neck and shoulders and arms. His eyes were now cat-like, cataloguing, assessing, and yes, enjoying. Bare chest to bare chest now as Sherlock brought a knee between John’s legs and pushed against the modest erection, quickly reviving it.

“Ahh,” John cried as his hands sunk into Sherlock’s curls. He relished the feel of Sherlock’s lips brushing, kissing, his tongue tasting, his mouth everywhere at once, not realizing the quick work he had made of the buttons and belt of John’s pants until Sherlock’s hand was down there, touching him. “God!” John exclaimed at the feel.

“I keep tehling yu, it’s Sherlock,” came the muffled reply from the crook of John’s neck. His hand pulled out from John’s pants for a moment, just long enough to push the jeans down over John’s hips. John moaned, relishing the feeling of having his legs locked into the jeans bunched around his knees, of Sherlock’s weight on him, imprisoning him.

Then Sherlock’s fingers were back again, caressing, exploring, encompassing, pulling.

 “You tehl may.”

“Tell you?”

“Tehl may…what to do,” Sherlock stiffened in embarrassment, his face still hidden from John, who could feel the heat of the blush on Sherlock’s cheek against his shoulder. This man on him was now at his most vulnerable, most exposed. John could not tell if it was because Sherlock was less experienced than John had assumed, or Sherlock was seeking the best way to please the doctor. It didn’t matter.

“Don’t stop,” John encouraged. “I love your hands…and your fingers. Wrap them around me, yes, God yes, just like that – Sherlock, you are perfect, you are perfect. Just a little faster, mmpph.” The doctor’s hands slid under his companion’s pajama bottoms and grasped his buttocks, gripping and releasing them with the same rhythm that Sherlock was caressing him. Their bodies moved together as a wave on the shore, slow and unceasing, seemingly never ending, locked together.

“Don’t stop,” John now pleaded. He could feel a tremendous build up in his entire body, the blood from his hands and feet and head shunting to his groin, making every nerve ending between Sherlock’s hands electrified. He shouted out as he came, black spots appearing before his vision, his body shuddering, and John rode the aftershocks, floating, not wanting to come down, not wanting it to end.

“Good _God_ ,” John managed. Sherlock slid off the doctor, leaving an arm thrown across his chest. With some maneuvering, John kicked off his pants and grabbed a corner of a blanket to pull over them.

“Just…tree-id,” Sherlock mumbled as he nestled in and closed his eyes.

“Yes, tired. Sleep, darling,” John lay a soft hand on Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock turned his head so his lips brushed the doctor’s palm.

“Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles. And Sherlock is just there. Steadfast.

“You promised!”

“I know I promised, Sherlock, but I can’t -,” John responded, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, as if speaking to a petulant child. Which, of course, he was. “The doctors need to move you to another room and I can’t be there. But as soon as I can, I will be.”

Sherlock responded by crossing his arms, no easy task in the small hospital wheelchair he was sitting in and pouted. The thin hospital gown slid off his shoulder and it took all of John’s self-discipline not to reach over and fix it. The waves of anger rolling off Sherlock were as visible as Mojave heat.

“You’ve been doing great. I know this is a hard road,” Dr. Wadsworth chimed in as she entered the room with a nurse who proceeded to push Sherlock out of the room.

“I’ll be right here,” John called out to him, then hung his head in exhaustion as soon as Sherlock was out of the room.

“You need a rest,” Dr. Wadsworth offered.

“I need a drink,” John responded, collapsing in a chair. It was the third day in the hospital following the surgery to attach one of the laboratory-grown ears. There had originally been five ears ‘grown’ for Sherlock in Petri dishes, but two of them had not succeeded. One had been attached three days ago but was not faring well. Even though an experienced surgeon had been brought in specializing in such procedures, there had been complications.

“We are going to be removing the bandages and assessing the ear. If there are any signs of rejection or infection, unfortunately, we are going to be taking the next steps to remove it.”

“And replacing it with one of the others?”

“We are down to just one more chance. One of the two remaining ears…is no longer viable.”

“Shit,” John sunk his head into his hands.

“First steps first, let me go take a look and let you know.”

“Thank you, doctor,” John said, and with an understanding nod, she left the room. A quiet figure almost immediately appeared in the hospital room doorway.

“Oh, Molly!”

“Hello, John!”

The two met in the middle of the room and hugged.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” John said.

“I got word that Sherlock was here,” she said shyly. “I just wanted to say ‘hello’.”

“Of course! He’s getting an exam right now, but we can go see him in a bit.”

Molly paused, uncertain, but then nodded with a smile. “That would be nice. I heard his nose looks really, really good,” she said.

“Yes, a totally successful procedure. That was over two weeks ago...the scars are beginning to fade, and he’s sleeping much better at night.” John felt a slight blush rise into his cheeks at this statement. Since that afternoon in Sherlock’s bedroom, the two of them had been inseparable. Together every night, holding each other close, as if afraid to let go. This latest stay at St. Bart’s had completely disorientated Sherlock. He had been completely miserable without John at his side at every moment. For John, it had been exhausting to be the supportive, understanding presence that he knew the detective needed.

“His speech is improving every day as well. Now we just have got to sort out what is going on with his bloody ear. But, I’m so sorry, how are you?”

“I miss you both very much,” she said, the look on her face showing she was a bit surprised at her own words. “I mean, I don’t see you in the lab at all any more. Do you think Sherlock will get back to his work, sometime?”

John opened his mouth, uncertain how to answer, when his cell phone buzzed with a text. “I’m sorry, Molly, that’s Dr. Wadsworth. Come on, I know Sherlock will be very pleased to see you.”

Now it was Molly’s turn to blush. “Well, if you think it would be all right.”

John clasped her hand and pulled her along with him down the hallway and into the next wing. Dr. Wadsworth, and the specialist, Dr. Herry, met them outside the door. The look on their faces said it all.

“The ear…,” Dr. Wadsworth shook her head. “It's showing signs of rejection. The blood flow just could never be properly initiated. We haven’t told him yet.”

“I’m pretty sure he already knows,” Dr. Herry offered. He was a handsome, prematurely gray-haired man with kind eyes and a thin build.

“Thank you, both. I know it was not for lack of trying. Let me go talk to him – come on, Molly, come say hello first.” When they entered the room, Sherlock was sitting up on an exam table bed, his legs hanging over the side. The bandage that had formerly been wrapped around his head was gone, and only a smaller patch covering the unsuccessful ear remained. The detective’s eyes were down, forlornly watching his feet swing back and forth. For a moment John’s chest tightened with nervousness as he rethought his decision to bring Molly. It was a difficult thing to deal with Sherlock lately.

However, upon hearing them enter, Sherlock raised his eyes and his face crinkled into a wide, genuine smile. John breathed with relief as Sherlock opened his arms and embraced the girl.

“You look wonderful,” Molly murmured shyly, and Sherlock dipped his head and touched his chest over his heart in thanks.

“Getting tere,” he replied.

“Yes, you are getting there,” Molly said. “Just keep your chin up, all right? Know that we are all here for you, Sherlock. You – and John – are not alone in this.” She wiped her hands on her lab coat nervously. “Well, okay then. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.” Molly raised to her toes and gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek.

“Tank you,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll see you both soon. Good luck,” she said, and as she passed John, she gripped his arm for a moment, her eyes locking with his.

“Thank you, Molly. We will see you soon,” John said. When the door closed softly behind her, Sherlock’s eyes moved to John.

“No good, es it,” Sherlock said.

“No, I’m afraid the ear didn’t take. They want to prep you for surgery...to remove it. And try again.”

The detective slumped, his shoulders and head almost collapsing in on themselves. It was John that embraced him now, pulling Sherlock’s head into his shoulder and caressing those curls, wishing they were out of this damn hospital with its crappy white walls and stiff blue chairs and terrible tea.

“It doesn’t matter,” John whispered to him. “You know it doesn’t matter to me.”

“I juss wanna go home,” Sherlock replied.

“We’ll do that, as soon as we can. That, I can promise.  We’ve got one more chance - ,”

“No!” Sherlock barked, pushing John away. Then more quietly, repeated, “No. No more. I’m awl done. Theees is the last. Make it, eh, fine.”

“You mean, just fix it, and leave it?”

Sherlock nodded, and John could see the immense exhaustion that was taking its toll on the man. Deep grey pockets underscored each eye, and the healthy glow that John had so rigorously induced with proper nutrition and exercise was beginning to fade. “Yooo said et doesn’t matter.”

“But…,” John began, but his voice trailed off. “Does it matter to you? I don’t want you making decisions on how I feel. You have to make sure that this is what you want.”

“Am done, with ahh theese,” Sherlock waved his hands around the room.

_I am done with all this._

“Just mur of a freek.”

_Just more of a freak._

“Oh, Sherlock, Jesus Christ, you were never a freak,” John managed to stutter, a wave of anger engulfing him. Anger at those that mocked Sherlock, and anger at Sherlock for caring what they said. 

"Ey don't care." Sherlock shrugged. “Theese is me now,” Sherlock placed a hand on either side of John’s face, long fingers on his cheeks, pulling him close, forcing him to lock eyes, seeking answers to unasked questions: _Do you take me like this? If I stay this way, will you still stay, as you said so many times? My heart is out here, John. Don’t let me down now._

But then John understood. Sherlock was done with hospitals, with reconstruction, with surgery, with recoveries.

It was time to move on, time to start life.

 John placed his hands over Sherlock’s, threading their fingers together.

“This is you now. And it does not matter if you were the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I am here now, and I will be here always.”

Sherlock snuffed and rolled his eyes. “Ey would get zee work done eef I was the Hunchbeck.”

_I would get the work done if I was the Hunchback._

They laughed through the tears that threatened, and then kissed.

“I’ll let the doctors know,” John said.

**

A few days later, John unlocked the door to 221B and watched as Sherlock took the last few steps to the flat and stagger to his chair. Home, at last. Both men exhaled a deep sigh of relief and smiled at each other when they realized they did so in unison. The detective was weak from the multiple surgeries but Dr. Wadsworth, true to her calling, had once again let them leave the hospital early so Sherlock could complete his recovery at home. Bandages encircled his head, reminiscent of his initial injuries, but they both hoped it was for the last time. The doctors had protested what Sherlock had proposed, but in the end relented – to a degree. They removed the ear and Dr. Herry shaped a small amount of donor cartilage into a semi-circular shape and inserted it under the skin of where the ear used to be, stitching it in place. The result could certainly not pass as an ear, but Dr. Herry instructed that it was a good beginning to one should Sherlock change his mind.

The hair over Sherlock’s damaged ear was beginning to get long enough to cover the ear to some extent. As John had noticed earlier, some of the damaged follicles were producing white hair, which lazed into coarse curls, much different from the silken curls on the rest of Sherlock’s head. John had to admit it gave the detective a sophisticated air – a strangely deformed ear hiding beneath curls with streaks of white.

John assembled the tea and started a fire, finally resting in his chair, happy to be easing back into the feel of 221B.

“Ey don’t ever want to leah theese place,” Sherlock said, his eyes roaming from Billy the skull, to the bookcases, and finally resting on John. “Ey wees homesick.”

“Me, too. It’s our own little corner of the world, darling. No one can take it away from us.”

“Yoo-hoo! Boys!” Mrs. Hudson called, entering with a tray of biscuits. “Welcome home!”

“Some things never change,” Sherlock muttered, and John smiled widely at his perfect enunciation. They were home, this time to stay. The healing of body, heart and soul, could finally begin.

**

After Sherlock went to bed that night, falling asleep to the sound of John reading the paper, the doctor puttered around the flat. He was restless. It had been a wonderful day – Mrs. Hudson was soon joined by Lestrade who heard as well that Sherlock was home. The detective kept to his chair, not talking much, but seeming to enjoy the company and not straying to hide out in his bedroom as before. He even flipped through the files again at Lestrade’s urging, which John did not interrupt. John could not be certain, but he thought he saw a little bit of that old fire in Sherlock’s eyes. John could feel something, too, an itch, an inkling, a desire to be back out there and at ‘the game’ again.

John poked at the fire, trying to pin down just what he was feeling right now. He felt that thought bubbles, indicative of those three undulating dots when he knew he was receiving a text, were floating about his head. He kept waiting for the message to come through.

Gazing at the undulating red-pink-black of the coals, he finally shrugged and let it go. If anything, he was just over-tired, and over-thinking.

He tip-toed into the bedroom and undressed. The detective lay on his back, one arm flung over his head, mouth slightly open and breathing deeply. A high circle of red sat atop each cheekbone, two cherries like one would see on the face of a flushed little boy. It was completely endearing.

John lay gentle fingers on Sherlock’s check to ensure the flush was not indicative of a fever, but the detective’s skin was cool and dry. Sherlock licked his lips sleepily at his touch, drowsy eyes opening slightly.

“Jawn?”

“Shh, back to sleep.”

“Was dreeming,” Sherlock said. “Of yoo.”

“Ah, thus the flush,” John said.

“What?”

“Shh, never mind. Back to sleep.”

“Kay,” Sherlock mumbled, pulling John into the bed, long arms encompassing him. They spooned, John tucked up under Sherlock’s chin and his back to the detective’s chest. “But not sleehpy now.”

Sherlock ran his hand down John’s ribcage and leg, those long fingers rubbing and pressing his flesh, stroking up and down in a long, gentle motion.

“Et was you,” Sherlock whispered. “You stole de penut butter bars.”

“Yes, it was,”John replied, smiling. “I stole them. You knew that as soon as I told you the story, didn’t you.”

Sherlock huffed a ‘yes’, his breath hot against the back of John’s neck.

“I know you, Jawn.”

“Like no one else,” was the reply, John barely saying the words, lost in the smooth motion of Sherlock’s hand down and back, down and back the length of his body.

Sherlock’s other arm snaked up under John and encased him tight against the detective’s chest, and when the doctor shifted to free his arms from under Sherlock’s grasp, the detective tightened his hold.

“Stay,” Sherlock whispered directly into John’s ear, this one word eliciting shivers from the doctor.

“I promise,” John groaned, arching his back into the erection behind him. Sherlock pushed down John’s briefs with quick hand and shimmied out of his own silken pajama bottoms, laying the length of his stiff cock into the crack between John’s bare buttocks. Sherlock began to move against him, his hand on John’s hip, the sweat from their bodies and the leakage from Sherlock providing lubricant between them. John flexed his arms again, wanting to grasp the curls that tickled his neck, but Sherlock did not let go. John moaned loudly at the feeling of being captured, contained, rolling his head back in ecstasy. Sherlock slid his wet lips along the exposed skin, teeth grazing his neck.

This was Sherlock taking control. So much of his life recently had been scheduled doctor appointments, orders to take medications, to practice speech therapy, to go to sleep, to get better. Not anymore, Sherlock had decided. A thought flashed through John’s mind amid his growing high: _how could I doubt the power of this astounding man? He will get better. We will be better, together._

Sherlock slid his hand from John’s hip to encompass his cock.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John cried as Sherlock began to jerk him off, each grinding motion against John’s backside pushing John into Sherlock’s fist. John clenched his buttocks, squeezing the detective’s cock with each thrust, eliciting an outcry of pleasure from his partner. It was a rhythm that quickly increased, until John’s body screamed for release, on the edge, but holding on, an unspoken promise, until Sherlock’s voice was in John’s ear again, like a mooring for John to hold onto against the desperate moans that were pouring from his mouth, from his body pounded like a boat in a storm,

“Now, John. With me.”

And John knew the answer to his restlessness, to the unanswered questions that haunted him: the life of being just flatmates was over. They were still partners in consulting detective work, but now they were _partners_ \- in life, in work, in love. The part of John that had been looking into down the precipice, wondering how to get to the other side, was gone. The bridge was there, and he had crossed it to be with Sherlock, who had been waiting patiently on the other side.

_This is it._

_This is where our story ends._

_And where it begins._

 

________________________________________________________________________FIN____________________________________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my darlings, this is the end. I know I had mentioned earlier of increasing the chapter count from my original planned 10 to 15, but upon further writing, editing (and rewriting and editing and rewriting and editing) it seemed that brevity was the soul of this story. Sometimes you just can't fight your muse!   
> I really am humbled by your comments and the following this story has accumulated. I consider it one of my best works so far, and I was only improved by your comments and encouragement. Love to you all!  
> And....I may be persuaded to start writing an epilogue, if there is any interest....  
> Best to you, -mainegirlwrites


End file.
